Brainstorm
by justTrip'n
Summary: Reunion" sequel. Conclusion of my E2 series. T'Pol has embarked on a risky pregnancy. Trip struggles with feelings of affection for a younger woman. Lorian is coming of age, demanding his own space, and clashing with Archer over how to save the world.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating**: PG-13 (for all kinds of stuff)

**Spoilers**: My saga draws on"E2" and "Chosen Realm."

**Disclaimer**: I am indebted to the actual writers and owners of _Star Trek Enterprise_ for 4 wonderful seasons. THANK YOU. No infringement intended.

**Author's Note:** This is the conclusion of the saga that began with "Forwards or Backwards" and continued with "Heresy" and "Reunion."

**Summary for beginning Brainstorm:** By the end of "Reunion," Trip had returned from his captivity on the Triannon missionary ship and had reunited with T'Pol. . . twice! ;)

However some plot lines were dangling:  
1) T'Pol had begun a risky pregnancy.  
2) The psychic "bond" is still "offline."  
3) Trip resents Malcolm for whatever happened (or almost happened) between him and T'Pol.  
4) At the same time, Trip struggles with real feelings for the younger Triannon woman who aided his escape.  
5) Lorian is coming of age.  
6) And the crew is anxious to find and destroy the "central sphere" of the expansionist Sphere Builders, before the transdimensional species renders the galaxy uninhabitable.

**Warning**: Anything can happen, including character death (but this conclusion covers a long time period so perhaps I can be excused.)

**Thank you**: To my consultant, **Black'nblue.**

* * *

**Brainstorm**  
**Chapter 1**

Trip sat in the brig, eyeing his distrustful teenager. The door wasn't locked; still, there was no escape from this duty. Recalling his promise to T'Pol, he gathered the courage to proceed.

"You see, Son, when a man loves a woman, they want to create a child together as an expression of their love."

Lorian threw up his hands, then covered his face. "Dad, I'm almost seventeen. I know where babies come from. I'm sorry you were gone for two years, but I'm afraid it's a little late for this."

"I _know_ you know where babies come from, but I still got someth'n to say, and you're _damn well_ going to listen!" Trip took a breath. This was going about as well as he had hoped. "We're not get'n out of here that easy."

"OK, but can we just skip the fairy tales?"

Now Trip threw a hand to his face and scrubbed at his forehead, as if to wipe off the sweat and grime from a long day's work.

Yeah, things had gotten a little messy. So where to begin?

_Lorian, . . . when men and woman are thrown 117 years into the past, they pair up to create the next generation of crewmen to run the ship and fight the Xindi. Except your mom and dad, who are genetically incompatible for that kind of thing. Still, an unbreakable bond developed between them, based on companionship and recreational sex. Then Phlox bailed them out by engineering YOU in a lab._

_Then, when your dad was kidnapped by the Triannons, your mom avoided the pon farr by inseminating herself with your dad's frozen sperm, against doctor's warnings. And meanwhile Dad seduced one of his captors to arrange his escape . . . _

Trip groaned in frustration. Now he understood his wife's discomfort when scolding her son away from Trellium. Trip looked across at his boy—the "expression of our love"— slouched on the adjacent bench.

"Look, Son. I love you and I don't want you to get hurt. I don't want you to hurt anyone else, so . . . we're gonna talk about this stuff if it kills us . . ."

20 minutes later they were finishing up. Trip had covered the essential topics, including ones he'd had to research: the warning signs of pon farr and the evils of nonconsenual mindmelding:

"It can disrupt neuroelectric pathways in the middle brain, leading to Panar Syndrome, a permanent loss of emotional control.

In fact, it's best to avoid the mindmelding altogether," Trip concluded. "It's taboo on Vulcan, 'cause it's so invasive, a lot more so than the bond, I'm told. One can do a whole lot of damage accidentally. . . . Just imagine an electrical current fry'n your brain."

Lorian's was wincing at this point. Of course he'd been wincing through the entire conversation.

"Oh, Son, I almost forgot: your mother and I never would have hooked up, if it wasn't for Vulcan neuropressure . . ."

"Please no more," the boy interrupted. "I promise I'll watch the video . . . "

"Uh . . .sorry. Your mom had to teach those techniques to me personally. I'm afraid there's not much in the database."

Lorian rolled his eyes in silent distress.

"Hey, champ. I got your back." Trip reached over and clapped his son on the arm. "I'll write it up! Just like the engineering documentation."

"Yeah, Dad."

"Uncle Jon says you started read'n that, after I left?"

"Yep."

"Does it seem clear . . . and complete?"

"It's pretty good. There's some crazy stuff in there about plasma injectors . . ."

"I should have put a note beside that: For emergency use only. Heh. We were pretty desperate when I wrote that . . . Look, I know this stuff is embarrassing, but it's all natural. Anyway . . . do you have any questions for me?

Lorian gave his dad a furtive glance:

"Will you help me find a mate?"

Trip supressed his surprise—to the best of his ability. "Well, . . . sure," He began hesitantly. _It's a natural question; he's half Vulcan, T'Pol tried to prepare me . . . _

"I'll tell you what. Worse comes to worse, Son, I promise . . . . But I'm sure things will just fall in place. Especially after Cap'n starts sending you new Recruits down to the surface. I could give you some tips for meeting women, but, I gotta tell you, Son—it looked like you were doing pretty good without a dating service. And if you don't my mind my asking—what was wrong with Paris?" Trip shook his head in wonder at his son's most recent female companion. "Geeze oh man, Lorian! That girl is gorgeous."

"Mayweather?" Lorian sounded incredulous. "We were just friends."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Besides, now she says she's 'bonded' to Carlos."

"Bonded? But they're not even Vulcan."

"I know. It's ridiculous . . . They 'play house' like fricking kids."

IRRKK! IRRRK! IRRRK! The alarm was sounding.

Lorian and Trip jumped to their feet, on high alert.

"Could be pirates," Lorian called over his shoulder as he activated the door.

"Run! Hide in the core of the ship," Trip instructed as the door slid open.

"No Dad, . . ._battle stations!."_

Lorian took off, bolting to his post. And Trip was right behind.

* * *

T'Pol returned from battle stations and gingerly sat herself on the bed. She seemed to be sick as usual.

Trip might have been more curious about her condition, but he was still too pumped with adrenaline. Pirate ships were a constant nuisance out here in the Expanse. Jon had scared off this last one from the bridge, without firing a shot, pulling off yet another diplomatic miracle.

But Trip was prouder still of the engineering crew. "Our boy's grow'n up!" He exclaimed. "It took a siren going off for me to realize. Lorian runs straight to Engineering. And just, in case the shit hits the fan, he's already remodulating the power matrix to the hull plating. He noticed a patch that wasn't polarizing."

"I am also pleased with his performance. And before the alarm, were you able to talk to him about mating?"

"Uh . . . I _still_ wish you wouldn't put it that way, . . . but yeah, we were just finishing up. It went well."

"So your talk was appreciated?"

"Well, it was tolerated. I hope you give me credit. I don't remember _my_ old man going into details. He'd keep after us, though 'Treat the ladies with respect!' He set an example and we were expected to follow . . ."

"Your example will likewise be beneficial to Lorian."

"I'm no Henry Archer, but I guess it'll have to do. They say, you practice on the first kid. With this second kid, we just might get it right. I'm sure looking forward to . . . that chance." He glanced at his wife, who seemed to be fighting off a wave of nausea. "Are you alright?" he asked belatedly, afraid to hear the answer.

"Trip, there is no easy way to say this . . ."

"No, T'Pol. Ahww no . . "

" . . . I had an appointment with Phlox this morning. . . We discussed the possibility of ending this pregnancy."

Trip flew to her side and found himself kneeling in front of her. He was gently holding both her arms as if she might break: "Hon, I know you're sick. But you made it through a trimester! If you could stick it out just a _few_ more weeks, . . . I promise. I swear it. I'll find a way to move it, move _her,_ move our baby into a biocylinder."

"It is not a baby yet; and it can't be moved."

"It IS a baby. You said you could feel it; that it felt like butterflies . . . "

"I warned you not to hope for an outcome that is unlikely."

"As far as possible, do not kill . . ."

"Surak's words cannot decide this case. The fetus's blood type is not compatible with mine. Increasing the anti-rejection dosage to compensate will also be quite dangerous . . . for me."

"How dangerous?"

"The drugs are suppressing my immune system. I can't fight infection. The doctor has been treating me for an infection. He warns that without an immune system my body could be overwhelmed—in a matter of days. He puts the odds at 80% . . ."

"That the baby will be born . . .?" Trip asked hopefully.

"That I will survive on immunosuppressants."

"Then you're right," Trip agreed, abruptly. "It would be suicidal. You should stop now . . . Hell, you should have stopped yesterday . . . " _You should have never started,_ he added silently. He got up in a daze.

"I did this so I wouldn't hurt you."

"Look, I appreciate your sacrifice. But, what do you want me to say?" He threw up his hands, "That this pregnancy was a good idea?"

"I didn't want to go through the pon farr without you."

"Well, why the hell not? It's not like we're Vulcans here on _Enterprise_—fighting for the right to mate—like a herd of . . . elk.

T'Pol, whatever you and your . . . friend . . . would have done, it'd all been all over by now. Water under the bridge! You should have known that. You could have trusted my loyalty. We're married. We can both overlook a few minor, . . . . totally anomalous . . . . incidents?"

Trip was still needy for reassurance. It'd been a teeny bit rocky when he'd first returned to _Enterprise_ with a young Triannon "girlfriend" in tow.

As often happened in the cold cruel Expanse, comfort and reassurance would not be forthcoming.

"This situation is so messed up," Trip muttered to himself.

"We can't change the past," T'Pol answered stoically. "It is indeed 'water under the bridge.'"

Trip returned to her side. He sat on the bed with his back to hers. He was thinking out loud: "You tried your best. Now what happens?"

"I don't know. I stop the drugs and we wait."

"How long?"

"Phlox is unsure. There is no precedent for this case."

"Perhaps we'll get lucky."

She turned now and gripped his hand.

* * *

It was a big day. Trip and Malcolm were taking the Recruits out on the hull for their first spacewalk.

"If you expose your body to the vacuum of space, it freezes instantly!" Carlos warned his fellow Recruits.

"Then when your dead body floats around and your frozen head bangs back into the ship, it shatters into a million pieces . . ," Glenn added helpfully.

Paris made a face, and the group erupted in snorts and giggles.

All except Lorian. "Guys, it's a VACUUM. To freeze you need to _radiate_ your body heat into space. That could take awhile."

"I know for sure your eyes would explode," Carlos countered.

Tiva, the only Triannon on _Enterprise,_ watched the scene with amusement.

"Your son is just like you, Charles: always setting the class straight."

Anxious playmates and family members had not been allowed to follow their loved ones to the airlock—it would have just been a distraction—but Tiva fell into neither category. So she had tagged along.

"I had a cool religion teacher," Trip replied. "I can't believe you let me go on like that, undermining your lessons."

"I never knew what you might say next! But it was always a lot more interesting than the lesson plan."

"I was driven to it by boredom. How did you survive in that job?"

"I thought I was helping the Makers gather Believers into the Expanse." Tiva cocked her pretty blond head, looking wistfull. "Looking back, I believe I was somewhat deluded . . . . Still, I feel nostalgic. A few months ago, with my people, my life had a purpose. There was something good there, on that missionary ship."

"As I recall, the only good thing on that ship was _you._"

She rewarded his rash statement with a brilliant smile. _God,_ she made him feel like Superman.

"Attention, Recruits!" Malcolm called, calming the chatter. "No one's eyes will explode as long as the helmets stay on. The joking stops now. We must keep our wits about us during this and every EVA. Yes, it's exciting, and yes we need to beat a deadline; but one can never loose focus. One misstep and you or your buddy could be floating off into the void."

Once you check and recheck the seals on your suit, your partner will check them. Then Commander Tucker or I will triple check them. Protocol requires a triple check for every EVA."

Trip turned his attention to the triple check. _What the hell is wrong with me? Why do I care if I have fans._ The woman was half his age and a recovering religious fanatic. And Trip was bonded . . . yes _bonded_ to the woman of his dreams . . .

He needed to focus. The Recruits were crowding into the airlock. Malcolm would lead them out; Trip had his back. He would help any stragglers.

* * *

Lorian felt the artificial gravity release its heavy grip. The hatch above their heads opened and Malcolm jumped and floated out the hole, catching the opening and smoothly maneuvering himself outside. Soon he was staring back at Lorian through the open hatch, beckoning him forward. Lorian jumped and floated out into the darkness of space. Malcolm caught him by an arm and held him steady until Lorian had planted two boots against the dull metal surface.

Lorian looked up and felt a sudden exhilaration. Much like an Andorian who climbs onto the surface of his planet after a childhood of living underground, Lorian's was stepping into a whole new world. A concave field of coppery plating, stretched out for hundreds of meters—a distant horizon. Lighting from the nearest star (it was reddish) cast stark shadows. Above them nothing but the blackness.

His body floated weightless over his feet. Out here, Newton's first and second laws of motion were all that mattered; that and the magnetism in his boots. He tested the physical laws and the strength of the magnetic fields by shifting his mass from side to side and pealing one boot on and off the hull. If he were to jump, he'd drift forever.

But he would never jump. Not when his life was just getting good. Suddenly everything was going exactly right for Lorian. He was a de facto crewman in Engineering! And a valued one at that; his peers looked up to him. Dad had escaped from the Triannons and was back with the family. His twin sister and best friend, Destiny, had been rescued from her kidnappers, so Lorian finally had someone to confide in, if he so chose. And he finally had something to confide _about:_ . . . that he actually cared in a crazy, irrational way, about another sentient being.

She liked him. He was convinced of it now. It was a whole lot of nothing, that added up to something. Wherever Lorian went, this woman would happen to show up. Like right now she was "watching" his space walk. And what the hell for?—there weren't even any windows! She was waiting outside the airlock for no good reason, just to congratulate the Recruits when they returned. And he couldn't help but notice that she was always listening in on his conversations.

Of course Lorian's sharp ears were mointoring hers as well. He had definitely caught that compliment: that he was smart, "always setting the class straight." Her praise was certainly _meant_ to be overheard.

Weird that his fifty-two year-old dad seemed just as smitten with the woman. Did Dad even realize he was _hitting on her?_ Not that it mattered much; he and Mom were bonded for life. It's just that Dad had never learned to hide his emotions; "he wore his heart on his sleeve" as some of the adults liked to say. Like today, the results were often . . . _embarassing._

Lorian sighed and excused his father: _It's been hard enough for me, being_ half _human; Dad is_ one hundred percent.

Lorian switched off the light in his helmet. He hoped to see the stars once his eyes dark-adapted. He was alone with his thoughts in the silence of the environmental suit, listening to his own breath, and waiting for the sky to sparkle. It was like a meditation. He could make out a few star clusters, but the Milky Way was not apparent.

Of course, the distant stars were never that bright. _Damn thermobaric barrier._ It blocked 50% of the light coming from outside the Expanse—

—And trapped people inside for years at a time.

_One day I'll undo this mess,_ he vowed—for the hundredth time.

He thought of Tiva waiting inside. _I wish she could see me now._ He switched his light back on before anyone could scold him.

* * *

There was something soothing about space, Trip considered. The stars burn on, converting hydrogen into helium, rolling blindly into the gravity wells of space-time. You feel small, insignificant—and alive by comparision. Being alive was a remarkable achievement way out in the total emptiness of space. And that went double for the Expanse with its treacherous anomalies. It was quiet in the locker room, as Trip and Malcolm inspected the environmental suits. They were worrying over a worn patch in the elbow of Trip's suit.

"Better have the quartermaster take a look at it. It might hold for another five years, but better safe than sorry. We don't want one of the Recruits wearing it and springing a leak."

"Your're good with those kids, Lieutenant." Trip said, absently.

"Thanks, Trip." Malcolm answered, "You can stop using my rank now. The kids are gone."

"Right." He'd been keeping the guy at arm's length for some time. "Sorry, Mal."

"Look, Trip. I'm sorry too."

"What'd you got to be sorry for?" Trip asked belligerently.

"I'm not entirely certain. On the one hand, I've tried to act honorably through this whole . . . recent affair."

Trip snorted softly and shook his head. "Affair . . ."

"On the other hand, I've obviously pissed you off."

"You haven't . . ." Trip answered firmly, wishing now, he hadn't given that impression.

"Trip, she said it was the only way. T'Pol said this pon farr condition would _kill_ her."

"I don't want to talk about this."

"Just tell me: what else could I have done?"

Malcolm's prodding was starting to get him angry. "You could'a told her to go find someone else." Trip suggested. "Someone who wasn't . . . my _best friend!"_

"Yes . . ." Malcolm agreed. "And I did—. . .."

A locker slammed shut and Trip was stunned into silence. He had assumed . . . . Well, it was natural to imagine that T'Pol called all the shots . . .

Malcolm continued more gently, pleading. "Look Trip. She's your wife. But I care about her too—as a friend. Is it so hard to believe she would want to pick me?"

Trip sat down on the bench. For the first time he thought through T'Pol's mating choices—really thought it through—and shivered. Some of these single guys were single for a reason: He turned to his friend.

"You're the most eligible bachelor on the ship," he announced in surprise.

"Thanks," Malcolm responded. "Someone finally noticed."

Trip laughed out loud and Malcolm chuckled back, pleased with his little joke. Trip's friend was a notorious womanizer, but mostly on the planets. He would never settle down with a wife on _Enterprise._

Trip felt a little better. Maybe it _was_ good to air this stuff. Trip looked back at the Armory Officer. "Honestly Mal, even more than the . . . 'recent affair' . . .another thing's been bugging me."

"Well then, out with it."

"That whole time I was rotting on that ship, learning my prayers, I kept expecting _Enterprise_ to roll up with guns blazing and haul us both outta there."

Malcolm shrugged an apology. "Sorry Trip, I led the rescue effort. We weighed the pros and cons of a direct attack. We had too much too lose. My security assessment told us it was best to wait—pursue quiet diplomacy." Malcolm nodded towards Trip, sitting on the bench. "And it seems I was right."

"How very Vulcan. That's what T'Pol said. Suddenly I get how you and my wife make a perfect couple."

Trip made a comical scowl and Malcolm smiled happily. Only Trip was allowed to joke about his alien wife, so Malcolm knew to back off.

Trip was packing up the final suit, when Malcolm broke the companionable silence.

"She's pregnant isn't she?"

"Yeah," Trip admitted, "but it's not looking good. I mean . . . I really want this baby, but . . . anyway."

"So . . . who's the father?" Malcolm asked carefully.

"ME!" Trip shouted. "I'M the father."

"Oh, . . . but . . ."

"It's the twenty-second century!" Trip exclaimed, exasperated. "Or at least it used to be. How do you think we had Lorian?"

Trip rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Phlox still had my . . . .genetic material lying around in stasis."

"Of course," Malcolm agreed. " . . . Actually, that's brilliant!"

"Yeah, maybe. Anyway, T'Pol thought so . . . But the way things are going now, she's probably going to lose this baby—I mean, fetus. Phlox says miscarriage is very common. Even among same-species couples."

Malcolm nodded, reluctantly.

"Don't tell T'Pol I said anything about her being pregnant"

"No I won't," Malcolm caught his eye. "Trip?"

"Huh?"

"I've been there."

"You have?"

"Yeah. On two separate occasions. One time with Shendra."

"Sorry Mal, I didn't know."

* * *

Lorian clammered down the access tube, his friend crawling right behind him. It was noisy and cramped. Lorian's hands and knees clanked on the grating, and they could hear and feel the engines hum nearby. The pretense for this excursion was that Lorian would teach his friend Vulcan mediation—But if it really came to that, Lorian was in trouble; Lorian was way too excited to meditate.

It was plausible that Tiva would be into meditating. She had been religious her whole life; she still prayed. And Lorian had absorbed much of the Vulcan worldview: the ideals of self-discipline and logic; the commitment to the greater good. It made total sense that his friend would want to learn Vulcan meditation from the only Vulcan willing to teacher her, except . . .

. . . she's _giggling,_ Lorian noted with relief.

"You doing OK back there?" he called over his shoulder.

She didn't answer immediately and when she spoke, her words were jibberish:

"_Git' khluk grif—xhuah! Xhua!_" she called ahead, still laughing.

"Shit, the translators don't work in here!" Lorian realized.

The woman replied with yet more jibberish. All he could understand was that she wasn't at all discouraged by the sudden impossibility of verbal communication. He stopped to see if she would want to turn back, but she waved him on.

"So we keep moving?" Lorian asked. She couldn't understand him, but he asked it anyway.

He flashed back to his fifteenth birthday. His friend Paris had given him a "present." It had all begun like this—a scramble down an access tube . . . . And yet, he hardly dared compare the two adventures. That encounter had been playtime; now he was serious. His relationship with this newcomer was based on something other than basketball. He was 17, an adult; the woman across from him confirmed it.

They'd arrived at their destination. A blanket was spread out over the rough grating. Sometimes he really did come here to meditate. He sat himself cross-legged on the blanket and invited her to do the same.

She didn't sit, but she stopped crawling and rested back on her feet. She gave him a mischievous smile.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Lorian said for no good reason.

Tiva rocked forward on her knees and Lorian caught her by the shoulders. They were nose to nose for a second, then their foreheads met. Acting on a deep and primative impulse, Lorian raised a hand to her chin, felt along the contours of her face, and locked on her temples.

* * *

Outside the ships titaniam hull something big was happening—something cosmic. Even more than usual . . .

* * *

Destiny was at that moment working in the nursery with her mother Amanda, caring for her younger brothers and sisters and three other babies. It was 20:00. If she could just get this last one down . . . She jiggled a baby in her arms as he valiantly fought off sleep.

"Twinkle twinkle little star . . ."

She sang yet another verse of the lullaby as the baby's eyelids floated shut again, then fluttered.

"Mom, let's dim the lights."

The lights went down and the baby's sweet little face relaxed. With one long sigh, he gave up his fight and lapsed into happy, weightless dream. Destiny gazed down at the contented face, feeling almost as satisfied as the baby. With this last one out of the way, Destiny had earned herself a quiet break. Still bouncing the child, she paced to the window just to daydream . . .

Staring out the window, she grew puzzled, then excited. "Mom, come look! There's something glowing in the sky!"

* * *

Lorian detached his hands and fell backwards. Tiva looked startled, even shaken. Then she smiled. Lorian smiled back, shyly. It was a little too late to be shy. They had just been rummaging around inside each other's brains.

Lorian held up a finger, then a hand, a signal to wait one minute. She seemed to understand. He got up off his butt and crawled to the nearest access panel, removed the panel, and started fiddling.

"There, can you hear me now?"

"Yes," she answered. "Not like I could a minute ago! What _was_ that? What did you do?"

"I think it's a mindmeld. Some Vulcans can link their minds with others. I shouldn't have. But you were coming at me, and it kind of happened. Are you all right?"

"All right? _THAT_ was one of the most spiritual experiences of my life!"

"'Spiritual'? He laughed at the irony. "Sorry, please don't think I planned this—with the translators off and all. I swear, I like to come here to get away from everybody. I turned off their spy system in this entire tube."

"It's just sensors; all ships have them. They're there for a reason. What happens if someone's looking for you?"

"If it's an emergency, I'll hear the sirens. See, a while back I had a girlfriend. And somehow, everyone seemed to know my business. So I'm extra cautious these days."

"So you and your girlfriend liked to mindmeld?"

"I've never done this before, . . . EVER. I hope it's not wrong. And I don't think it is, 'cause I respect you . . . 'a course . . . But, I need to tell you, . . . Hell, you already know . . . that I think you're amazing . . ."

* * *

On the bridge T'Pol stared out her viewer. "I concur. It's extraordinary."

"In a good way, right?" Amanda's sounded excited over the com.

"It does indeed seem fortuitous."

T'Pol could hear Destiny whispering "YEAH!!!" from the background in the nursery.

"SHH!!! Quiet!" Her mother urged, in the tone of someone organizing a surprise party.

"I must notify the senior officers," T'Pol continued, "I'll report back as soon as I am able."

"YESSSS!"

"T'Pol out."

_Vulcans do not get excited over novelties,_ T'Pol chided herself. _But Humans do. I will be pleased to observe Trip's reaction._

* * *

"So Destiny is your twin sister in name only?" Tiva asked the boy. Lorian was lying on his back in the access tube, knees pointed to the ceiling. Tiva crouched by his feet. There was hardly room to sit up.

"You're twins if you were once in the same womb," Lorian answered, "and we were. Only it was an artifical womb."

"And that's how you feel?"

"That's how it _is_."

"I was just curious." Tiva told him. "Your dad calls her his 'niece' and you both are so protective of her. I had her as a student; she's nothing like you."

"Well, she's half Denobulan, if that's what you mean," Lorian answered evasively.

Tiva knew it was time to change the subject. "So . . . why do your parents disapprove of mindmelding?"

"Well, they say when a person invades another's mind, neuroelectric pathways are disrupted. Someone could get hurt."

"But it felt wonderful."

"More importantly, you're Triannon, and I'm both Human and Vulcan. Our people don't get along so well. Ms. Sato says I'm not supposed to even _talk_ to you, about . . . certain stuff. Some would say our interests conflict."

"I disagree. We are much more similar than you realize. You were born to carry out a mission—to save your planet . . ."

_How did she know . . .?_ He was only beginning to realize it himself . . . .

"And I was born to save mine," she finished, stunning them both into silence.

The silence was broken by a distant commotion: EEEERRKK . . . . ERK! ERRRK . . . .ERK!. Lorian sat up in confusion. The sirens were sounding, but in no recognizable pattern. They were just making noise. Lorian reluctantly crawled towards the exit to check. That's when he heard the page:

"Lorian report to the Bridge. Lorian report to the Bridge."

* * *

As word spread, people across the ship had turned off their lights and rushed to the nearest window to see the sparkly bright glow.

Senior officers had gathered on the bridge, not to strategize or analyze the data, but to see the show on the widest possible viewscreen. Someone had the brilliant idea to look for the Sun.

"That's definitely it," Travis crowed. On the screen, a cursor pointed out the speck. It filled just one pixel.

Jon smiled broadly, "Well, we're not going to get sunburn from that. Enlarge."

Now they all gazed on a large yellowish-white blur.

"Spectroscopic confirmation," T'Pol announced from the science station.

The Bridge erupted in cheers; there were hugs and high fives and even tears of joy.

Lorian and Tiva stepped off the lift and into the commotion.

"What's going on?" Lorian asked bewildered. "I heard the page. The halls are dark."

"There's no emergency." T'Pol assured him.

"Tiva!" Trip exclaimed. "Where were you, Son? We just wanted to show you something."

"Sorry, Mom, Dad, I was off the grid."

"The grid is down?" Trip asked.

"It shouldn't be," T'Pol said.

"Just one access tube. It's no big deal. I can fix it tomorrow."

Jon interrupted. "Lorian! So glad you could join us!" He waved a hand grandly at the screen. "That is our home!

"Sir, I don't . . ."

"It's the Sun!"

"But how ?. . . it's never visible . . ."

"The thermobaric barrier went down fifteen minutes ago, not just a clearing in the clouds. The entire thing just dissipated, in a matter of minutes!"

"Any idea why, Cap'n?"

"None whatsoever."

"Whoa . . . So what does it mean? Our job here is done?"

"Not so fast. It could be just a glitch. Or the spheres could be down for routine maintenance. It's too early to tell."

"Or it could be the Sphere Builders are f**ked," Rostov added heartily.

Lorian grinned, he almost laughed, but then glanced to Tiva.

"T'Pol," Travis asked, "You want to try for 40 Eridani A?"

"Vulcan's primary star is relatively young and will sustain nuclear fusion for another eight billion Earth years. I am quite certain it is still there."

"Then, let's look at the Milky Way," Trip suggested, trading a look with Jon, the amateur astronomer. The Captain beamed in anticipation. Lorian took a seat on a step.

The scene on the viewscreen changed to a thick panorama of stars. Tiva who already seemed a little weirded out, now gasped and turned to Trip.

"It's beautiful, right?" Trip asked her.

"Beautiful . . . scary, the universe is suddenly so vast."

"Travis pan starboard. See right there?" Trip pointed at the screen. "That's the center of our galaxy. So many stars it looks like someone spilled milk."

Tiva seemed embarrassed. "Milk? Like from a mother? How would it get spilled?"

Jon suppressed a smile, then explained: "On our planet we drink the milk of farm animals, cows . . ."

"Even the adults?" Tiva asked in horror.

"Yes, even the adults."

"I see . . . ."

"The Makers are opposed to milk?" Jon asked.

"Very much so. It's only for babies."

"I'll make a note: Next time the Prenom stops by, we don't offer him ice cream. . . ."

"Not that we have any," Hoshi noted mournfully.

"So, Tiva, what do you think?" Rostov asked. "Your people ever hear of anything like this happening before?"

"Actually, yes."

The crew looked deflated.

"But not in my lifetime," she added.

"So it's unusual," Jon said. "I believe that's worth celebrating!"

"Last time, how long was the system down?" Trip enquired.

Tiva looked thoughtful. "They say, the last time the Makers dropped their Arms, many ships fled the Chosen Realm. I believe the 'system was down' for something like two of your weeks." She noticed the strange looks. "Our people call the barrier the "Arms of the Makers," she clarified. "If the Makers drop their Arms, it's because they are angry with us."

"Maybe they are angry you defected," Rostov suggested with a laugh.

Trip scowled a warning at his fellow engineer, and T'Pol noted the exchange.

"This calls for a party," Jon decided. "Someone's got to make a run to the galley. What Earth food do we still have in storage? Just the spaghetti sauce?"

Just then, Amanda arrived with Destiny. "Uncle Trip," Destiny said, "we also want to see Earth on the big screen! And maybe Denobula?"

"I'm not sure we can do Earth," Trip apologized, "but we just did the Sun. Don't worry, you didn't miss anything. We'll be here all night."

"Wake up the chef," Jon added, and Hoshi went to her post to make the call.

Destiny found a spot on the floor near her "twin brother." The place was getting crowded. "This reminds me of that time the stasis unit went down," she said, "and we ate the last of the . . . ice . . . the ice. . . "

"Ice cream," Amanda finished. "We had to eat all the perishable food."

"Mmm . . . ice cream," Hoshi said, lost in a daydream. "Why do we keep talking about ice cream?"

"And how do you remember that?" Amanda asked her daughter. "You were only three?"

"It's kind of hard to forget. I remember the parents crying . . . and singing! "

The crew exchanged glances. "Uh . . . that might be because of the drinking," Rostov said, excusing them all.

Lorian chimed in: "And Dad tried to force me to eat some kind of pie with nuts in it."

"Mmm, mmm!. . . Pea-can pie!"

"Mmmmm. . . Ice cream . . . _with strawberries!_"

"Fresh plomeek."

"Turkey . . . . with stuffing."

"Pumkin pie! No! No! Pumpkin curry with cilantro. . . "

"Tea and biscuits . . ."

"Protien biscuits. . . the _real_ kind. From Rigel 10."

Lorian poked Destiny: "Here we go again," he said with a half-laugh. Destiny rolled her eyes and giggled.

The kids knew these list-of-food conversations could go on for hours.

Lorian stood up from his seat on the floor. "Thanks, Mom, Dad, Cap'n, Lieutenant! Thanks for let'n me know! I don't care how many dimensions these expansionistic Sphere Builders think they need. We'll mow 'em _flat!_"

Rostov looked appreciative. "Maybe someone already did."

"Death to the Sphere Builders!"

"Earth Will Prevail!"

Lorian smiled and started toward the lift.

"Lorian aren't you staying? This is historic!" Trip protested.

"Tiva is leaving. I'm going to walk her back." Lorian studiously ignored his beaming twin sister. "You got the data. We can analyze it tomorrow, right?"

Jon looked incredulous. "Lorian, You don't _analyze_ this data. You scan it, explore it, enjoy it. You should be here for this party."

"Will there be drinking, . . . Cap'n?"

Jon snorted, softly. "Nice try. Not for Recruits: Regulation 409."

"Sir, Regulation 409 is no drinking _while on duty,_" Malcolm reminded.

"Regulation 409 B," Archer amended, winking at T'Pol. "(It was just added.)"

"Permission to speak freely." It was Lorian.

"Permission granted."

"If a Recruit is old enough to head out on the hull in one of your Apollo-era space suits, he's old enouph to _drink_."

"Hear, hear!" Malcolm called out.

"I risked my life."

Jon grinned appreciatively: "Trip, T'Pol, it's up to you."

T'Pol glanced at her husband, "I don't see why not . . . right here with us?"

"Hey, me too," Destiny said, appealing to her own mother. "I'm as old as he is. And I discovered this phenomenon!"

"Great!" Lorian, exclaimed, as if the matter was decided. "I'll walk Tiva to her door and be right back."

Destiny gave him a thumbs up.

T'Pol raised an eyebrow, silently calling Lorian over to her side. In a low voice she said, "I fear Tiva may be uncomfortable with the overt hostility you and others expressed towards the Sphere Builders. She is our guest. Please see that she is reassured."

"Yes'm." Lorian answered quickly.

"And bring back some food," Jon called as Lorian hurried to the lift.

"What a polite boy," Amanda noted.

"Just like I taught him," Trip bragged.

* * *

Lorian never returned with the food. The bridge crew had to send a second courier to the galley for snacks. Hours later, Lorian did wander back, quiet and disheveled. It was late and the party was winding down. Malcolm offered the boy a drink, and he took it. At his first sip of ale, Lorian frowned—Perhaps it was the bitter taste that cut short his first drinking spree. Still, Trip thought his son looked slightly buzzed as took up a seat on the floor and guarded his hard-won drink. Lorian leaned back against a bulkhead and took in the starry viewscreen and the conversation of his superiors:

"But if the system stays down for say a month, do we go home?"

"There is still the problem of pollution of the timeline."

"But maybe this means that somehow time has already been polluted. Something we did, perhaps inadvertently, maybe rumors of our presence here, has caused the sphere builders to back off? And who cares if the timeline is polluted if it leads to a happier outcome. In that case I'm all for pollution."

"We could go back to Earth and live quietly."

"You remember Movie Night? _Back to the Future?_ We could prevent our parents from ever meeting, blink ourselves out of existence."

"I'd settle for a quiet life in a cabin in the mountains if it meant I could go back to Earth. Let's head home and see if Daniels tries to stop us."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I am indebted to the actual writers and owners of _Star Trek Enterprise_ for 4 wonderful seasons. THANK YOU. No infringement intended.

* * *

_Trip parked the shuttle on a romantic beach. Tiva looked at him with hungry eyes._

_"Destiny go outside, the adults need to talk."_

_Tiva threw her arms around his neck. A celebratory hug. And then she was nuzzling him, arousing him. He raised his hands to her face, in order to stop her. He pulled back and kissed the top of her head._

_"I can't."_

_"But, we may only have these few hours . . ."_

_"Tiva, I need to make a confession: I love my wife . . . ."_

_"I know you do. She'll never know, I swear it."_

_"She'll never know 'cause it in't gonna happen . . ."_

Trip shook off the recollection. He'd rejected her advances; no one could blame him if maybe he still cared about her . . . on some level. _But I have a great wife,_ he reminded himself. _I have a pregnant wife. And I have a meeting to get to._ He got up and headed out the door.

"Lorian has been invited to the officer's meeting today as a guest," Jon announced. "He has a proposal concerning the spheres. Recruit."

Lorian eyes danced around the room, but his voice was strong as he addressed the adults: "Ms. Sato told our class about the subspace chatter. Everyone seems to think that the barrier is down due to an actual attack on the sphere system. I think we ought to head towards the central sphere and see for ourselves."

"I wasn't aware that anyone but us was concerned with the Sphere Builder threat," Travis said. "Although we _have_ been complaining about it to every ship we meet."

"Maybe we changed some minds," Jon theorized. "Hoshi, continue to monitor the subspace chatter. Malcolm has contacts on the planets: people who helped us with the Triannon kidnappers. He'll be checking in with them."

Lorian continued, "We believe the sphere where my Dad was treated for his transdimensional illness may be the central sphere—the nexus between their world and ours. The Triannons tried to disguise its location but my dad used star patterns to narrow down his location to a volume of space 10 light years in diameter. We need find this sphere and assess its condition. If the central sphere really has been destroyed, great!. If it's only damaged, perhaps _Enterprise_ can finish it off."

Jon nodded his thanks. "T'Pol's not here so . . . Commander Tucker, brief us on the sphere technology."

A schematic appeared on the conference table.

"The graviton radiation leads us to guess the spheres are powered by orbiting black holes, possibly transdimensional wormholes. The radiation seems to be regulated. We believe the central sphere serves as a thermostat. Our hope is the entire system could be destabilized if we, or someone else, could somehow collapse the shielding on this central sphere."

"So what kind of debris would we find if the system has already been attacked?" Malcolm asked.

"Huge chunks of metal?" Trip suggested. "If the system doesn't fully collapse, we might 'see' exposed wormholes. They would look to us like black holes."

"And how do we 'see' a black hole. What sort of signature would it have?"

"X-rays from in-falling debris. Hawking radiation. Hawking radiation is perfectly harmless; it might even be too subtle to detect. X-rays would be be great. We could probably read the signature from here. Wouldn't even need to get close."

Major Hayes frowned. "Even without the radiation, the idea of approaching a black hole sounds dangerous. What if it sucks us in?"

Trip and Lorian exchanged a look. Trip nodded to his son.

"Black holes are no more dangerous than any other gravity well," Lorian explained. "A star would also 'suck us in' if we got to close."

Trip continued: "And these holes are very small. The radius of the event horizon would necessarily be shorter than that of the sphere itself. Probably by several orders of magnitude. The odds of blindly hitting one on a random course through 300 cubed light years are next to nothing."

Jon added, "I suppose it would be similar to the odds of someone running into an anomaly while out on the hull."

"Cap'n?" Lorian had something to contribute. "That sort of accident is at least a 10,000 times more likely."

Jon smiled uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "Well, . . . thank you, Trip, Lorian, for that thorough analysis." Jon continued onto an area where he was surefooted: "Some of you have suggested that we head in the other direction; escape the Expanse while we still have a chance. But we can't go home. Think what would happen if we returned now: Earth has six more years before the first warp flight and first contact with the Vulcans. There is almost no way to show up and _not_ make a big splash.

Trip, what does Tiva think of all the excitement?"

"I don't know. I haven't talked to her in a while."

"I know your situation with her is . . . delicate. But suck it up and talk to her. I need to know she's on our side."

"She is, Cap'n. I'm not gonna spy on her. I'm not comfortable . . ."

"I know you're not, Trip, but that's an order."

Lorian interjected: "She is excited about the development. She talks about maybe taking off to explore beyond the barrier."

"That's not good, Trip, talk her out of it."

"Why?" Trip asked the Captain.

"It's bad enough that some of our trading partners may leave the Expanse. There is nothing we can do about that. She's a member of our crew. We've got to do all we can to prevent contamination of Earth's timeline."

"Cap'n, Tiva's just curious. That's a good thing. She wants to promote science among her people. She knows that a hundred years from now, her people will blow each other up fighting over how many angels can dance on the head of a pin. Maybe a little more Triannon scientific curiosity could prevent that disaster."

"Earth comes first, Trip. You never should have told her."

"She has as much right as we do . . , Cap'n."

Jon was scowling and glancing sidelong toward Lorian, warning the commander not to continue this challenge in front of a recruit. Unhappily, Trip backed down.

After a few more items, they'd cleared the agenda. Jon dismissed the officers, but intercepted Trip, placing a hand on his arm. They waited till others were out of earshot. Trip waited for the reprimand.

"T'Pol asks that you meet her in Sickbay," Jon said softly.

* * *

They were going to name her "Ocean" in honor of Earth, and of Florida.

But T'Pol had started bleeding. She'd held out longer than expected, but it was still too early for a viable birth. When Trip had arrived in sickbay, Phlox met him at the door, to promise only that _T'Pol_ would be fine. Trip had traded a few words with T'Pol, then she and Phlox had chased him away.

Trip sat listless on the daybed, gripping a padd. He drummed it on his thigh, lost in thought.

"Dad?" Lorian had appeared at the door of the Tucker quarters. "Is Mom alright?"

"No, I'm sorry, Son. She's going to lose the baby."

"Damn!" The boy did look startled, and Trip instantly regretted his abruptness. "I'm sorry." Lorian continued. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna need you to cover for me in Engineering."

"What do I tell 'em?"

"I don't know. Make something up. Your Mom still thinks her pregnancy's a secret."

"I didn't tell."

"I know. Now run on. Get out of here."

Lorian hesitated an instant, then reluctantly ducked out the door.

Trip knew he should count his blessings. He had one good kid. Lorian was as good as kids ever get. Which was no surprise: they'd never cut the boy any slack; they were raising a soldier and there was just one chance . . .

But the baby girl, . . . she had been a surprise, a bonus. They hadn't really _needed_ her. So, they could have indulged her a little.

_Hell, I would've spoiled her rotten . . ._

_This isn't helping._

He could just ask T'Pol for new baby. They'd do it the right way this time—nice and safe in the bio-cylinder. They could select the sex and guarantee a girl. It was true that genetic selection was frowned on; you were supposed to leave it to fate. _Fate threw me 117 years into the past to make a life in the fricking Expanse. Fricking fate can take one on the chin._

He ran some mental calculations. _Say we start tomorrow. So when the baby is 7, I'll be 60; by the time she's grown, . . . . shit, I'll be 70—if I'm here at all!_ His spirits sunk lower. On second thought, this plan didn't make much sense. Trip wasn't even sure he had the energy for 16 more years of childcare. T'Pol was still "young," but she would very possibility have to raise this next kid as a single parent. Should he even ask that favor?

The com sounded. Phlox's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Trip?"

"Phlox!"

"We've finished. There were no complications. T'Pol is resting comfortably."

"I'm heading over."

"There is no need, Commander. T'Pol is sedated. You might as well stay put. Amanda is sitting with T'Pol . . . ."

No response.

". . . . my condolences."

Trip nodded, then remembered to speak, "I appreciate that." The com went silent.

He felt empty. This was so wrong. Though it made no sense—he felt ashamed. Ashamed at his very bad luck, and T'Pol's poor reproductive choices.

A month ago, he'd been "Superman." Escaping from the Triannons with his niece; welcomed back by his wife; finding out he was to be a father all over again; Tiva had been his only problem. _Heh._ His worst problem had been that _two_ wonderful woman found him irresistible.

_Heh._ . . well . . .so . . . that was that.

No crying baby, no diapers, no toddler underfoot.

T'Pol would be equally crushed. But without the bond . . . he wouldn't feel that immediately. So he switched on his "auto-pilot" in preparation for the coming days: _Ask if she's OK (she'll say, yes.) Fetch her broth from the mess. Don't mention babies . . ._

Lost in thought, he heard the first sob. _Shit! Autopilot is glitchy,_ he cursed, as he slowly bowed his head and found himself crying into his hands.

* * *

Lorian headed down the hall to Engineering. _No little sister . . . not this time . . ._ Seems he was once again an only child . . .

He turned a corner and there was Tiva. He pulled up short beside her.

"Is something wrong? You seem a little startled."

"No . . ." It seemed ridiculous to be lying to her. He had the impression she could read his mind without even touching his face. Suddenly he needed his closest friend.

"Meet me after my shift?"

"Sure."

"18:00 in Cargo bay 2."

Of course she agreed. Lorian could hardly concentrate through his shift. Maybe all the mind melding _was_ disrupting his neural pathways—it was reckless. These . . . brainstorms . . . could be handicapping him for life. But the intimacy, the feeling of connection trumped every logical consideration.

* * *

No one but Trip knew how emotional T'Pol could be in private. Unfortunately, she expressed her emotions more on the downside than the upside.

When she came home, she curled up in a ball and refused to be consoled.

Trip lit a candle, set out her soup and her tea. He even downloaded her transdimensional physics project onto a PADD, in case she got inspired. He rubbed her back.

"It's weird not to be able to read your mind."

"I don't want you to read my mind."

"I want to read yours," Trip persisted, sounding less than certain.

"You won't understand."

"Maybe not, but I can try. You helped me when I was depressed."

"I was able to help because I was NOT depressed. This time neither of us has positive thoughts to share."

Trip took this as a challenge. He cocked his head in thought: "You're not going to die of an infection. . . ." he offered momentarily.

She raised an eyebrow. Could he keep it up?

He tried again: "We only have one kid, but he sure is a good one."

"Yes, he is," she agreed as the tears welled up in her eyes.

* * *

Tiva and Lorian sat on the floor behind a wall of cartons in the Cargo Bay.

"If my parents knew about this, they would kill me," Lorian noted.

"They would kill you?"

"It's just an expression. They would be mad—more like sad. . . . I don't know what would happen, but it'd be a huge disappointment. Right now they think I'm perfect."

"I can confirm that."

"What?"

"Your Dad's always bragging about you. How do you think I knew you were destined to save your world?"

"Aw! How pathetic!" Lorian lamented.

"Yeah, but now that I've met you, I'm sure he's right."

He was lost in her eyes. "I get the same impression about you. You're special . . . somehow."

"Look, why are you worried about your mom or your dad? I'm pretty sure they are wrong about the mind melding. It's a wonderful gift you have. We can take each other places . . . in an instant. There are no boundaries anymore. You're 17. It's time to make your own choices. When I was seventeen, I ran off to join the missionaries."

"I'll never understand why anyone would do that."

"You could . . . let me show you," She reached for his face, and he reached for hers.

_Suddenly he was in a crowded auditorium, with tiers of seats. He felt the exhilaration of the crowd. He was on ground level. A huge bubble boiled precariously ten feet away. And he felt drawn towards the bubble. If he jumped in he would be torn limb from limb, but it almost seemed worth it. He longed to feel the Breath of the Makers. The anomaly lurched in his direction._ Lorian stumbled backward from yet another meld, his grip on this Triannon religious epiphany already dissolving. Tiva smiled back expectantly, waiting for his verbal feedback.

"Wow . . ." he said. "That anomaly was fricking scary. I thought it would suck me in."

"So, now do you appreciate my religion? Do you understand why it's important that I set it right?"

"I'll never understand your religion, but I understand you." _I never thought I'd feel this way about a Triannon,_ Lorian marveled. _God, I love Triannons._ "If you need to set your religion right in order to save your people, you should do that."

* * *

Two days later, T'Pol was improving, but she seemed to need female company. She'd left their quarters to spent the entire day with Amanda. Some secret girl thing. When T'Pol came home, Trip looked up in shock. T'Pol looked EXACTLY like the woman he had married.

"You cut your hair!" Trip exclaimed.

"It had gotten too long."

_I like long._

"How does it make me look?" T'Pol inquired.

"Ah . . . severe and intimidating."

T'Pol viewed her face in the mirror with a critical expression.

"What look you were going for?" Trip asked.

"I want to look more Vulcan."

"OK," Trip said, trying to be agreeable. "What brought this on?"

"Recently it occurred to me that I am the matriarch of my family."

"And I am the patriarch. What's your point, darling?"

"The matriarch—the oldest female in the clan, most often a second or third foremother—is charged with several important duties, the most momentous being to arrange bonding ceremonies for her progeny."

"A bonding ceremony?" Trip asked incredulous. "Where kids are promised to each other . . . by their parents? Lorian will never go along with that."

"You said it yourself: he has always been compliant."

"I said he has always been a "good" boy; I never said "compliant." There's a difference between 'good' and 'compliant.' I was a good boy. But I enlisted with Starfleet as soon as I turned 18. My mom had a fit. Lorian is going to give you some gray hairs, you mark my words. He just hasn't gotten around to it yet."

T'Pol continued to examine her very dark hair in the mirror.

"Hey!" He'd almost forgotten. "When have you ever been 'compliant'? You dumped your fiancé to stay on _Enterprise_— with me."

"It was dishonorable to leave Koss without a mate."

Trip heaved a sigh. He was used to being dissed.

T'Pol continued, "The bonding custom is logical given the biology of our species. It provides the bonded children with a sense of security. Lorian is probably anxious about his approaching maturity. What course of action do you propose to ensure a mate will be available for his first pon farr?"

"I propose the Lorian hurry up and find himself a girlfriend. Stop being so aloof."

"The fact that he doesn't show much interest in females probably means that he is some years away from his first pon far. And by the time he does show interest, the pon far may be upon him."

"I still have faith in the power of his _human_ Y-chromosome."

"Your bias has been noted; and it does not bear on my assessment."

"OK then, T'Les. Where do you propose we find a suitable mate for our boy?"

"On a Vulcan ship."

"But he's half human."

"Humans tend to be dismissive of Vulcan traditions, as you have just demonstrated. That is why I will look for a Vulcan."

"We haven't seen a Vulcan ship in the Expanse since the _Seleya._ Maybe Vulcans just don't do well in the Expanse . . ." Trip suggested carefully.

"Vulcan's have a long history in space. There is no reason they couldn't have mastered the proper use of trellium and diffused into this sector." She reached for her PADD. "I will compose a note for Hoshi to distribute throughout the quadrant."

"Blond haired/blue-eyed male seeks beautiful Vulcan child bride?"

"Appearance is irrelevant. The quality of the parents is the best indicator of the child's future character."

"Uh-huh . . ."

It seemed kind of manic; maybe tomorrow she would crash, but for now she was happy, or as close to it as Vulcans ever get.

_So what's the harm in her writing a note?_ Trip wondered. _Or in searching for others of her own kind? Lorian will have the final say in this bonding thing._

"Ok, just don't hope for an outcome that is unlikely." Trip cautioned. "That's what you're always telling me."

"Do not concern yourself with the odds of success. It is my worry. I am the family matriarch."

_Who are you? And what have you done with my wife?_ Trip imagined himself shouting at the noncorporeal lifeform that had taken over T'Pol's body. _Laugh so you don't cry._ That was what his mom used to say.

"Amanda may be able to help me compose this message."

Trip nodded, and T'Pol headed back out with a purpose.

Trip had a bad feeling about this bonding ceremony. . . Hell, he had a bad feeling about everything—even the barrier. Your spirits get too high, they just come crashing back down.

Lately it had been one thing after another: This morning he'd asked Jon when he might be reinstated as head of Engineering. Jon had suggested that Trip might prefer to be "Director of Engineering Education." _Director of Education!_ It was like they were already putting him out to pasture.

T'Pol was up and around, but since the miscarriage, they just hadn't been clicking. He hadn't found the right moment to ask her to raise his next child.

Trip's mind wandered back to that day on the beach . . . the Earth-like beach . . . he'd wiped away Tiva's tears. He'd refused her and she was crushed. Now he was getting a response on the subspace channel. It was HOSHI!!

_"This is _Enterprise, _do you read me."_

"Enterprise _I read you. This is Commander Charles Tucker!"_

_"Trip!!!!"_

_"How is everybody?"_

_"Trip, you'll never believe . . . Trip, we've allied ourselves with the Xindi in the battle against the Sphere Builders. We've completed our mission. Earth is safe!"_

_"That's wonderful! I'm so relieved. Where is T'Pol?"_

_"Trip, I'm right here. I am so pleased to learn you are still alive. We thought you were dead."_

_"But I'm fine! How 'bout you?"_

_"I'm well, but . . . . there is no easy way to say this, Trip, I've bonded to another . . . I had no choice . . . "_

_"The pon far . . ."_

_"Yes, . . ."_

_"But who?"_

_"No one in particular. Just a crewman . . ."_

_"I'm devastated."_

_Jon's voice came over the com: "Trip, our shuttle is broken. There is no way to pick you up at the moment."_

_"Yer kidding! And the transporter?"_

_"Trip, the Heisenberg compensators went down just yesterday! Rostov is pursuing other options, but I'm afraid it may be a few more weeks. We think it best you remain planetside . . . for now. Just sit tight, Trip! Enjoy the beach. We'll contact you as soon as we know something more . . . "_

_"Okay . . ."_

"Enterprise_ out."_

_Trip was alone with Tiva. She was already unfastening her gown._

Trip shook himself from the daydream. _This is becoming a problem._


	3. Chapter 3

**THANKS:** I am indebted to **Black'nblue** ("In the Cold of the Night") and **Linda** ("Vulcans Do Not Have Maple Trees") for their descriptions of Vulcan life and customs. I've borrowed a few "facts" from them.

* * *

Trip stood on the catwalk in Engineering staring at a monitor, considering some unusual fluctuations in the power couplings. _Could it have anything to do with that patch on the hull that refuses to polarize . . ._ Malcolm waited nearby, arms crossed, waiting for a verdict on the defective shielding.

_It might help to scrub the plasma conduits,_ Trip thought, _but it's just been done . . . _A message alert popped on his screen. It was Tiva.

"Tiva," he answered.

"_Charles, I need to talk to you privately."_

"Sure, I get off at 16:00. Meet me here, in Engineering?"

"_That will work."_

"Charles out."

_Charles . . ._ he was starting to like the way she called him that. He'd introduced himself by his given name to keep her at a distance, but here on _Enterprise,_ it only underlined their special relationship.

It was hard to define just what had happened. Among the Triannons, they'd become allies, confidants. If he weren't married, and fifty-two, and opposed to her way of life . . . well, it was ridiculous to speculate . . .

But Trip still worried over his former partner in crime. He'd helped her through her a rough patch when she'd first come to _Enterprise_ and agreed to be de-weaponized. She seemed to be doing better now.

_What could she want?_ It was a crazy hope, but what if she sensed he was troubled? They used to be like that. He wished he could unload—tell her about the miscarriage. It would be pointless, and disloyal to T'Pol; yet he craved some _female_ sympathy.

Trip stared at his monitor. "Oh, hell!" he cursed in frustration.

Malcolm looked up, curious. "Is there a problem?"

"It's Tiva, she wants to _talk."_ Trip a waved a hand towards the screen. "This woman's making me crazy, . . and at this point, it's totally not her fault."

"Need a chaperone?" Malcolm asked cheerfully.

Trip glared at his shoes in a sulk, and Malcolm clapped him on the back. "Don't sweat it. You're the most married man I know."

Trip nodded his thanks. "I just can't seem to focus," he confessed.

"On the other hand, if you ever have a change of heart, you said it yourself: T'Pol and I make the perfect couple."

"Maybe in some alternative universe," Trip allowed, "where I'm not around to _rip your head off!"_

Malcolm licked his stiff upper lip, suppressing a satisfied smirk.

* * *

Trip headed into the mess side by side with Tiva. The mystery of her power to distract was suddenly no mystery at all. Trip was once again lost in the moment, lost in conversation, lost in her every changing facial expression. They were weaving wild theories about the disappearance of the thermobaric cloud barrier—and how the two of them might even be indirectly responsible.

"A mutiny? Hoshi said there was a mutiny?" Trip asked.

"No, but Hoshi reports that the subspace chatter is that _Triannons_ are responsible for the recent disruption in the sphere system. Our ship was vulnerable to a power shift. Our Prenom could have been defrocked for letting us escape."

"There are religious sanctions for being stupid?"

"No, but it is said that the Makers punish a false leader with misfortune."

"Your Makers punish everyone with misfortune. It's impossible to guess who they like: the noise-to-signal ratio is too high."

Tiva smiled. "Yes . . . you shared many such . . . insights . . . with the Seekers . . . And I condoned your heresy with my silence. "

"So we conspired to state the obvious." Trip shrugged. "I can't believe we started a revolution."

"The truth is a powerful thing."

"Maybe Targon was right: A network of believers really _does_ transform the Chosen Realm. Just not in the way he'd imagined. Would you want to join the rebels in their cause?"

"I am no longer willing to defend the spheres with my life. But would it not be just as wrong to attack something I do not fully understand? I am not an extremist. I seek to moderate between extreme views. "

"Good for you," Trip said, approvingly.

They'd arrived at a table and he slid into a chair across from hers, suddenly more comfortable than he'd been in weeks. Her mere presence was comforting. On the Triannon ship, they would sometimes play "footsie" under the table. He'd chosen a public meeting place to avoid any such temptation, but the memory flashed to him unbidden.

Tiva's face got serious and she reached across the table, placing a hand on his arm, "Charles, I didn't want to bring it up, but . . . I know about your loss. May you find strength and renewal."

"I appreciate that." In fact, he was quite touched. "How did you guess?"

"This will be quite awkward to explain . . . I've been spending time with Lorian."

"Don't worry. He wasn't supposed to say anything about the pregnancy, but I'm not mad if he did. People were starting to guess."

"He didn't say anything," she stated mysteriously.

"Then, how . . . "

"Charles . . . I value your friendship."

"And I value yours."

"So please don't get angry . . ."

"I can't imagine getting angry with you."

She had been holding his arm, but now she withdrew to her own side of the table. She took deep breath, as if gathering the courage to make the next statement. "I want to tell you that Lorian and I . . . we are companions."

"Companions," Trip repeated, blankly. "You and Lorian. What's that _even mean_?"

"I don't know how to explain it. I have never been in this type of cross-species relationship. All I know for sure, is I have never felt so alive."

The puzzle pieces began to fall in place. "But you're a _teacher_ and he's a _student."_

"He's not _my_ student," she pointed out, "though I may be his."

"So you and my son are _boyfriend/girlfriend?"_ His face scrunched in confusion.

She didn't deny it.

Trip's mouth hung open, astonished. He suspected he should feel angry or concerned. Instead, he was just . . . . He leaned back in his chair to assess the situation. "Well, he sure knows how to pick 'em," Trip decided at last. "Geeze, oh, man."

Tiva flushed a pretty pink at the compliment, everywhere but the delicate porcelain bridge of her nose. And suddenly none of this mattered.

"You know he's only _sixteen,"_ Trip recovered.

"Seventeen," she corrected.

"You're right! His birthday was last week! I totally forgot."

"It's perfectly understandable. There was so much going on. Lorian was fine with skipping the party."

"Okay. . . But you're like . . . 25?"

"That's correct."

"So there's a real age gap between you two."

Tiva shot him a reproachful look.

"Yeah . . . _well!"_ It was a lame defense, but defending himself was beside the point. This was about Trip's only son. "Look, you and me, we're both adults. But an adult and a _seventeen year-old?_ In a relationship? That's pretty borderline, at least on my world. People are gonna look at that funny."

"I understand that physical intimacy with an adolescent would be wrong."

"Damn straight it would be wrong!"

"But our relationship is based on _psychic_ intimacy."

"No, no, no . . . ," Trip protested helplessly. This was even worse.

"We are soul mates," she told him defensively.

"I was afraid you meant . . . . the two of you were . . . . _mindmelding?"_ He pronounced this squeamishly.

Tiva's frightened expression gave him the answer.

"I told him not to," Trip moaned. "That kid has such a good brain. Why would he risk frying it?"

"It's not like you think. We've done it scores of times, with no ill effects."

"Does Lorian even know you're telling me this?" All of a sudden, it all seemed too private.

"No. Lorian would kill me if he knew."

Trip just stared.

"It's a human expression," She hurried to explain.

"So why are we having this conversation if you don't want to hear my warnings? That's all I got are warnings!"

"Lorian feels guilty. He is afraid you and T'Pol might reject him if you knew what he was doing. I told him I was sure his fears were exaggerated."

"His fears are exaggerated," Trip stated firmly. "Tell him we would never reject him. We're concerned for his safety, that's all."

"Lorian is also concerned about his safety . . . and mine. That's why he consulted Dr. Phlox."

"And what did Phlox say?"

"That little is known about this practice, that panar syndrome is rare, that he suspects the standard warnings may be exaggerated."

Trip swallowed hard. "I don't get it. So the only thing we know for sure is we have no idea what we're dealing with. Why play with fire?"

"Lorian is very scientific. He says, if mindmelding isn't advantageous to his species, why did it evolve?"

"I don't know . . . to kill prey?"

Tiva seemed to know that Trip was grasping at straws. She continued in an even tone: "I suspect the Vulcan taboo against mindmelding has no more basis than the Triannon taboo against drinking milk. And I told Lorian that I am willing to take the risk."

Trip looked worried. Tiva reached across the table again. Now he wished could evade her touch, but he had to be polite.

"I know you're concerned, like any parent would be," She said with a hand on his arm, "but I want to assure you: the Makers have given your son a wonderful gift."

"The _Sphere-Builders_ have given Lorian a gift?"

"I do not refer to the Makers of the Spheres; I refer to the Makers of the Chosen Realm itself. And now I believe the Chosen Realm extends beyond the Expanse to the whole Galaxy. That is what the Makers are telling us when they open their Arms and let people in."

Her resiliency was amazing.

Trip pulled his arm free and resettled in his chair. "I don't know what to say. I mean, I'm happy you're both happy . . ."

"Well that's something. I was hoping for your blessing . . ."

"You can tell Lorian I didn't freak out. But I can't promise that everyone else will be quite as open minded."

"It sounds like you prefer that Lorian and I just sneak around." Tiva sounded offended.

"That's what I would do," Trip answered gently. "I'm sorry if it's not the answer you were hoping for."

She stared sadly at the table.

"But I thank you for your honesty," he added. I'm not sure I deserve it . . . after all I've put you through."

"I have made peace with what happened," she assured him.

He nodded. It was some relief to hear that. He stood up, a little disoriented by the new situation, and immediately searched for T'Pol. "Where is everybody?" he asked the empty dinning hall. He glanced at his chronometer and remembered.

It was April 5: the anniversary of Human­­–Vulcan First Contact.

* * *

Trip wandered into the auditorium looking for a seat. The "auditorium" was simply the gym with the benches and equipment rearranged. From behind a black curtain came scraps and bangs and excited whispers.

T'Pol was dressed for the occasion in her most snazzy outfit—a wild orange blousy-thing, over stretchy-tight pants. She was seated next to Jon and his wife, Esilia. Jon was already beaming, proudly. Their daughter had the role of Lily Sloane in this year's English class production of "Reaching Out to the Stars."

T'Pol was conversing with Jon. "I am still puzzled why the role of Lily is considered a romantic lead. There is no historical evidence to suggest that Dr. Sloane and Dr. Cochrane were ever anything more than colleagues."

"They were single, they were close, they were hiding in the mountains . . ."

She waited for something more definitive.

"You're right," Jon conceded reluctantly.

Trip sat himself on the bench beside T'Pol. "Subcommander?"

She seemed surprised at the odd greeting and the fact that he took her hand and placed it in his lap. "I'm sure they were just colleagues," Trip agreed, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.

"I'm aware that this story has accumulated some . . . mythological elements," Jon continued. "But the play is true in its essence: if not for this man, Humans and Vulcans might still be strangers."

"'Don't try to be a great man, just be a man!'" Trip recited. He leaned his weight into T'Pol's shoulder.

"I love this play," Jon said.

"Its message is universal," Esilia said, "It's not just about Humans and Vulcans, it's about cooperation between diverse cultures." Esilia gave Jon a look of gratitude. He had rescued her and her shipmates from an anomaly field.

"I also find that theme compelling," T'Pol agreed, giving her suddenly snuggly husband another curious glance.

Hoshi stepped out to shush the crowd. Rostov's son Stan would play the lead. The lights dimmed, and the curtain rose, revealing a shinny metal torpedo tube—_The Phoenix_ with dry ice steaming ominously from beneath. . . A 7th-grader stepped into the spotlight beside it and lifted his hand in the iconic pose.

Somehow this production improved with each passing year, except . . . Trip and T'Pol exchanged a look in the dark.

T'Pol's eyes were wistful. *_Our Lorain was the best Zefram Cochran,*_ Trip thought he heard her say.

* * *

From his behavior at the play, T'Pol guessed that her husband was feeling amorous and would initiate sexual relations as soon as they got home. If not, she would certainly propose it herself. She was comforted by the prospect of resuming regular intimate activities. Her mood and strength had improved sufficiently.

But there was no hurry. Trip and T'Pol lingered long after the play to congratulate the young actors and their parents. The celebratory mood continued in the mess, where the crew had gathered for the traditional interplanetary dinner, featuring dishes traditional on each of the planets represented on Enterprise. Of course, Chef had to improvise with the ingredients at hand, but he was called out and applauded for his mystery-meat "hamburgers" and mystery-vegetable "plomeek" broth.

First Contact Day always put the couple in a nostalgic mood, not that they needed much excuse, being so far removed—in both space and time—from their home address.

The door to their quarters whooshed shut, and T'Pol turned to her husband to see if he was happily buzzed from the party. He gave her a tired, appreciative smile, but he also seemed anxious about something.

She raised a worried eyebrow, inviting him to unload.

"I talked to Tiva today. It's about Lorian. It seems the two of them are boyfriend/girlfriend. It seems pretty serious."

T'Pol returned a blank look, then knotted her brow. It was shocking, but she must process this information logically:

Tiva was quite a bit older than her son. An age gap _per se_ was not a huge problem, though Lorian's slow aging process would only exacerbate the age difference between him and his mate over time. A child bride might have been preferable. But Lorian's options were limited.

T'Pol knew nothing of Tiva's parents, but Trip thought well of the woman herself. Trip had become overly attached to his Triannon ally, but his instincts in choosing her had proved correct: She _was_ smart, capable, and loyal to the new crew.

In a moment T'Pol had formulated her answer: "I will consent to this match _if_ Lorian and Tiva agree not to mate until after a bonding ceremony, which I will need some time to arrange."

Trip opened his mouth in surprise, then gave a quiet laugh. "You're a good mom, T'Les, but I'm afraid there's more."

T'Pol braced herself for the worst.

"Lorian has been mindmelding . . . with Tiva. And I'm not sure our opinion on this matter will make a difference."

T'Pol felt a flash of shock, fear, and shame. Lorian, if he was admitting to this practice, had joined a feared minority among Vulcans. T'Pol understood her son's predicament better than she had been willing to admit. She had been _eager_ to experiment with Tolaris. She had dreamed about this practice, long before she really knew what it was. She suspected that she was not alone among Vulcans in this respect. Vulcan babies had to be taught not to reach for their parent's temples. A Vulcan parent will discretely deflect a reaching hand, as a conscientious human parent might pull a thumb from a baby's mouth.

"It is unwelcome news," T'Pol told her husband, "but I am not entirely surprised."

He raised his brow expectantly, waiting for the rest of the story.

"I never trusted the pronouncements of the Vulcan Science Directorate on this matter. When the Vulcan medical staff told me I was genetically incapable of melding, I knew they were wrong. As a child, I believe I had this ability . . ."

"Wow . . ., " Trip was astounded. "So . . . is mindmelding really dangerous?"

"Yes, on Vulcan it is quite dangerous to deviate from the norms of society," T'Pol replied in disgust. "As an admitted melder, Lorian will be ostracized by his fellow Vulcans if he ever makes it back to our home planet. And so will I."

"But you are not an admitted melder."

"No, but I will defend my son," She glanced at Trip with fiery eyes. She feared her further duties as a Vulcan matriarch might be limited to protecting Lorian from her own people. "I will cancel the search for a Vulcan ship . . ."

"Look, I'm sorry about your plans for a Vulcan wedding . . ."

"Human customs are less formal. I fear I am irrelevant to his future plans."

"You and me both. I'm a little weirded out too, to learn about this. But Lorian's probably fine." Trip stepped forward and held his wife around the waist. "You and me ignored our parents and a few social conventions to get here . . . and we're happily married."

This much was true. T'Pol pushed up his sleeve to admire his tattoo, and Trip made a muscle. She traced the symbols she had applied herself. Perhaps she had gotten a little carried away with her sentiments, knowing that no one besides her and Trip would ever be able to read them.

She caressed his tattoo and wondered if she should show him hers. The sight of her bare backside always sent her husband into a human version of the brain fever. Trip loved the heart he had sketched, with the arrow through center and his name in the middle . . .

"So, you want to have some fun?" he asked as if sensing her thoughts.

"I want to be intimate," she answered. It was not the way she usually spoke. And he waited for a clarification.

"I want . . ." She couldn't finish. It was too embarrassing.

"Tell me what you want . . ."

T'Pol gathered her resolve. _My proposal, though highly unconventional, is not immoral. _

"I have always wanted . . . to mindmeld with _you.."_

Trip was stunned. "Well, I'm flattered, of course. But . . .I'd feel like a hypocrite . . . I mean, I just told Lorian . . .."

"You can amend your warning. Tell Lorian you were not fully informed."

"Do I _want_ to be fully informed. . . ?" Trip asked himself aloud.

"Think of it as an experiment with Vulcan intimacy."

"Right, an experiment. But the electric shock . . ."

". . . is less than 20 volts."

"Twenty volts! That's nothing for a warp engineer . . ." Trip stuck his tongue in his cheek. "OK," he announced momentarily. "I'll try anything once. And you're OK with this? . . Didn't you have one bad experience . . . ?" He didn't want to mention Tolaris.

"I have no reason to fear you. You have never intentionally hurt me."

"No, never intentionally, I swear. That was just me being stupid . . . "

Whatever he was stammering about, T'Pol let it slide.

"So what do we do?" he asked her anxiously.

"Do you have personal thoughts or images you would like to share. Something impossible to express in words?"

"Yes. Even First Contact Day . . . it's really meaningful to me. It gets me right here." Trip tapped on his chest.

"Then, you prepare your thoughts and I'll prepare mine. You can indicate when you are ready . . . to explore some new frontiers."

He smiled appreciatively, nodded, and she reached for his face.

_A jolt and a flash of white. Trip felt his head whip back. Tons of rocket fuel exploded beneath him as he blasted upward, flattened to his seat. Then the pressure eased off leaving him weightless in the quiet. His heart pounding, he surveyed a field of switches: all lights were green. He called to the ground: "Lily! You ready to make history?" He flipped a switch and the nacelles extended. He flipped one more—and the stars turned to blurs._

_High above the planet a Vulcan science officer monitored the rapidly advancing prewarp civilization. It was a recent assignment. Humans had just crossed the threshold into the space age. Two weeks of high-orbit statistical surveys had yet to reveal how this war-torn species had managed to launch an artificial satellite into space. Now that green warning light was blinking again: the impulse manifold was still malfunctioning. The ship began to shake. Smoke filled the cabin. T'Pol strapped in for an emergency landing . . ._

_The Phoenix came to a stop and Trip was weightless again. Around him a completely alien environment. An eel peeked ominously from the rocks, an impossible frilly fish floated below, a school of neons skittishly evaded him. This is why he wanted to be an explorer._

_The lifeforms were so striking and so fascinating. That's why T'Pol had wanted an assignment on Earth, to follow in the footsteps of her second foremother. The wonder of diversity in new combinations had called her off her planet and out of her Vulcan compound. Like the variations on that jazz tune, drifting through the cool night air. Like her half-human son in the play, confidently raising his arm toward the stars._

_Lorian stood by his dad in the ocean. Each clutched a bodyboard. A mound of water rolled toward them. "And NOW!" They jumped and the wave drove them both forward, racing all the way to the shore, and left them tumbling and battered in the sand. T'Pol waded in with Ocean, dangling her baby feet in the surf. A floppy beach hat hid her beautiful blond curls._

_T'Pol recalled her difficult pregnancy as she carefully stepped through the cooling sand, her dark path lit only by fiery-red T'Khut, hanging low on the horizon. Female relatives gathered in the traditional circle to welcome the newest member of the extended family. The toddler's wild curls marked her as an alien here on Vulcan, but Eldest Mother had graciously insisted on a traditional inclusion ceremony. While Phlox patrolled the perimeter of the ceremonial grounds, lirpa in hand, Amanda stepped into the circle to present her sixth child . . . "May she grow strong and true," each women called out as Amanda raised T'Pol's bewildered niece towards the stars._

The feelings were too intense. T'Pol abruptly broke contact. And found herself staring into Trip's startled eyes.

* * *

Corporal Fiona McKensie was working third shift on the bridge with her husband. Like most former MACOs she'd been retrained in ship operations. A beep went off at the empty science station beside her, and she went to investigate. An automated scan was reporting a scattering of objects at one half light year's distance. Fiona ran the standard sensor checks, then tossed her long grayish-blond hair over one shoulder to peer through the viewer.

"Visual confirmation!" She called out happily to her husband.

"What'd you find?" Travis asked.

"Metallic debris near the predicted coordinates of a sphere!"

Travis smiled broadly. "Well, that's worth a closer look. It might be the damaged central sphere. How far off?"

"Half a light year."

"Wake the Captain. He's going to want to alter course when he hears this."

* * *

Trip gathered his wits and tried to make sense of the new information. He always knew that T'Pol felt strongly about Amanda's children—they were her nieces and nephews. And T'Pol would often volunteer to babysit when Amanda needed a break from her large litter of children. But Trip never imagined ship's First Officer might actually _envy_ her frazzled friend working in the nursery.

T'Pol waited anxiously for a response.

"Why feel sad," Trip wondered aloud, "when it seems we want the same thing?" T'Pol listened closely as Trip got serious. "Now, I can't guarantee the golden curls, but I _can_ promise you this: one way or another, we'll have another baby."

T'Pol hugged him in relief.

* * *

The Captain paced the deck of the bridge in a celebratory mood. He'd just approved Travis's suggested course towards the damaged central sphere.

"Trip's kid was right again," Travis noted.

"Wake him up!" the Captain ordered.

"Who?"

"Lorian," Jon clarified. "He deserves to be here when his theory is confirmed."

"Or not . . ." Fiona added cautiously. Fiona peered through her viewer. "This debris is looking more and more like a ship wreck."

"Either way, let's get him up here," Jon decided.

Fiona returned to her console of internal sensors. Soon she was scowling. "I can't find Lorian—anywhere."

"Well he hasn't been abducted by aliens," Travis teased, instantly realizing his mistake. His wife and the captain exchanged worried glances. "I'm sorry. I meant the scary aliens—with skinny arms and white faces. The ones that paralyze you while you sleep and then drill holes through your eyeballs . . ."

His wife looked annoyed. "Travis, I'm not worried by your ridiculous ghost stories. We have plenty of real enemies in this horrible sector." She turned to Jon. "Request permission to locate the Triannon?" she asked anxiously.

The Captain hesitated.

"The last time we let down our guard . . ."

The Captain heaved a sigh, "'Do a passive sensor sweep."

Travis tried to calm them both: "I'm sure Lorian is just off the grid—again. I'm convinced he kills the sensors on purpose." Jon gave a reluctant nod. "Remember when we couldn't find Paris?" Travis asked his wife.

"Captain! Tiva's gone too!"

"It's probably nothing," Jon replied in a cheerful tone. "His parents may know where he is."

* * *

The com sounded in the Tucker's darkened room.

_Trip, T'Pol, I'm sorry to bother you, it's Jon._

Trip blinked awake and untangled himself from T'Pol. "Is it urgent?" he asked. "T'Pol's asleep."

_Maybe not, but we can't find Lorian._

"Oh, he's just off the grid . . . try access tube 2. He promised he'd fix that section, but . . ."

_We also can't find Tiva._

"Oh. I'll bet they're together."

_In the middle of the night?_ Jon asked puzzled.

Trip was stuck. How to explain? Jon's kids were young.

_I'm sending security to look for them both._

T'Pol stirred beside him. "OK," Trip conceded. He was too sleepy to think.

There was a long pause before the com went dead.

Trip rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes. _Should I get up, get dressed, and try to warn the pair myself?_ He gave a laugh. _No._ Lorian would be mortally offended. Not to mention Tiva.

_Poor kid is busted,_ Trip realized, _and there's nothing I can do._ His conscience relieved, he rolled back towards his wife, flopped an arm across her waist, and sunk back into his wonderful, comfy mattress.

* * *

The mood on the bridge turned somber minutes later.

Fiona shook her head, sadly. "Captain, if you do find Lorian, don't call him up here. He's too young to see this."

Half a light year away a ship hung in space, ripped and mangled. Pieces of debris sailed away unimpeded; other pieces had been pulled into orbit around an invisible nearby mass.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** No infringement intended. I just love Star Trek. My eternal gratitude to the writers of _Star Trek: Enterprise._

**Genre**: Adventure and wholesome family drama. _LOL!_ (Remember the Connors? . . . No, not _that_ Connor).

**Author's note:** Thanks to my betas, **Black'n blue** and **Elessar**. Jump on the ride. I'll remind you of the key plot points as we go. Alot happens in this one, so I've marked a Part A and B in case you need two sittings to finish.

* * *

**PART A**

"I expected better things from you, young man! You record was clean until today. "

Lorian scowled back unhappily. There was nothing he could say. Every defense just seemed to make things worse. And why did the Captain have to reprimand him right here on the bridge in front of the Mayweathers? Paris's mom and dad were pretending not to listen, but Lorian knew better.

It made him furious. He had as much right to a private life as any of them, but no approved place to conduct it. Lorian felt his face and ears burning. _Damned light complexion . . . sucks for hiding emotions._

"Yes, sir," Lorian muttered, with as much disdain as he felt he could get away with.

Jon waited. If the captain was expecting an extended apology, he wasn't going to get one. Five excruciating seconds later Jon's angry visage melted into something more like disappointment. And Lorian knew he had won the staredown.

"Dismissed," Jon said quietly, and Lorian broke off towards the lift.

How did a perfect evening turn so awful? An hour ago, in the supposed privacy of access tube 2, Lorian had been with his . . . . he hardly knew what to call her . . . his partner? His lover? The relationship had taken him by surprise. Yet it was so affirming, so intense, he could hardly remember or imagine his life without his Triannon counterpart. They'd been melding, wrapped in a blanket of complete and utter mutual acceptance. He'd awoken to find security officer Hernandez starring at him with a curious expression that quickly turned hard and judgmental.

The Captain had been totally in the wrong.

But Lorian's conscience nagged him: _I have been pushing the boundaries._ He actually stopped in the corridor and threw up his hands, then dropped to a seat on the carpet. The bulkhead was cold, metallic, and unforgiving against his back; it's solidity could wake him out of daydreams.

_Why am I so agitated? Why can't I get centered? And how did I find someone so irresistibly exotic—on an intergenerational ship?_

It was very possible these mindmelds _were_ damaging his brain. But how could he stop now? She was voracious. She never wanted to stop. So they indulged and hoped for the best. It was reckless. _Surak would certainly condemn my recent behavior._

_I can't get my bearings. But I don't want to lose her._

There was only one logical resolution: He'd take the leap and give her that gift. It was a physical acknowledgement of their spiritual connection. He'd commit to her—now. Then, maybe, this agitation would subside . . .

* * *

Trip awoke, wondering vaguely what ship's security had found when they went waving their flashlights into access tube 2. He kept his wondering very vague. Tiva, the alluring Triannon missionary, was now his son's concern. He hoped that situation all worked out.

He was relieved to see that T'Pol was dressing again in the open. The plumpness of pregnancy had receded. T'Pol was 80 years old, the physical equivalent of 40 for a human. Women on _Enterprise_ complained that T'Pol never aged. But Trip knew better. There were subtle signs of wear and tear. There were lines around her eyes. _Not laugh lines._ (Trip harrumphed at his joke). There was a softness to her belly. Her hands looked forty—or more. Their veins reminded him of vines growing up a strong old swamp tree.

He found all this endearing. He recalled the easy, eager intimacy between them the night before, how they plunged into that whirlwind of a mindmeld—. She was still playful after all these years. Yes, they were youthful enough for one more baby . . . if they started tomorrow! He sighed for no good reason, feeling lucky, and profoundly settled.

Even if they were nomads . . .

Nomads on a rest stop. The stars weren't flying by. The engines were off. He could tell by the unsettling lack of vibration. T'Pol was gazing out the window – intently.

Which reminded him: why _had_ Jon been looking for Lorian last night? Was there some engineering emergency? And what sort of emergency would have required Jon's favorite Recruit instead of his Chief Engineer?

_The chief engineer is still Rostov,_ Trip recalled dully.

"Trip!" T'Pol called out. She was still staring out their window.

Trip jumped up to see what had left her speechless. Through the invisible aluminum, 500 kilometers ahead of the bow of _Enterprise_, a collection of artifacts floated in space, scattering the glow from the ship's own spot lights.

* * *

Lorian pulled up at Tiva's quarters. She was rooming with Paris, who answered the door. Before Lorian even had a chance to ask her to, Paris called to Tiva, who stepped out in the hall.

"Lorian, are you in trouble? What happened? What did they say?"

Lorian shrugged. "Nothing important," he bluffed.

"Do you want to go someplace and . . . share . . .?" She asked, cautiously.

Lorian, felt himself blush. "No," he told her. "I want to give you something: A symbol of my commitment to you." He handed her a small box.

She opened the box. It was a piece of metal, very small. "Is this traditional?" She asked, looking worried.

"No, I made it myself. With some help from Asatoshi."

"So, what is it?"

"It's a two-way communicator, with short-range and subspace capabilities. You wear it in your ear. It piggybacks off our ship's communications systems—and power source. You can control it from a PADD."

She looked too stunned for words.

"I know it must seem ridiculous. The subspace part was just me gett'n carried away. It's mostly symbolic."

"And what does it symbolize?"

"That I'll be there anytime you call. I promise, unconditionally."

Tiva hesitated. "Lorian, that's so sweet. I appreciate the gesture."

Something about this response was off. She sounded like Miss Hoshi praising a kindergartener's crayon picture. Tiva should be asking him how to work the controls. Instead she just seemed anxious.

Paris stepped out in the hall. "What's that?" she asked the couple.

"You don't know?" Tiva asked.

"Lorian doesn't give _me_ presents." Paris smiled supportively at her old boyfriend.

Paris's professed ignorance seemed to reassure Tiva. Maybe after last night's fiasco, Tiva was suddenly shy about Lorian, worried what people might think.

"Look, I have one too," Lorian persisted. He opened his palm. ". . . Just keep this in your pocket if you're not sure."

Tiva closed her hand around the gift.

"I gotta get some sleep." Lorian announced.

"Us too," Paris answered, and they parted.

Lorian's presentation hadn't gone as well as he had hoped. Walking to his quarters, he imagined the two women were already huddling for a conference about his "gesture." There was nothing more he could do.

Lorian flashed back to the basketball tournaments that he and his friends used to play in the gym. _No regrets._ He'd given it his best shot. And his teammate Paris had his back.

He threw his own com unit in his ear and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He would have to be up in just two hours. In his dreams, he heard her voice: _Lorian, come quickly. I need you._

She'd repeated it three times, before he realized it wasn't a dream.

* * *

Trip headed to the conference room. The mess hall had been buzzing at breakfast, with everyone speculating about the debris field. _Was it the remains of the central sphere?_ He would know soon enough. Jon had called an early morning meeting, and Trip was glad to be in the middle of the excitement.

As he approached the doorway, Lorian ran up from behind to intercept him. For a moment Trip was puzzled: Lorian was too private to confront him directly about this girlfriend situation.

But Lorian had more immediate concerns: "Dad, I wasn't invited to this meeting!" he said with alarm.

"It's an officers' meeting." Trip stated, still confused. He drew Lorian off to one side.

"Yes, but Uncle Jon let me come to the last one," Lorian reminded. "It was MY idea to come out here and look for wreckage. I can help on this. Capt'n promised he would keep me posted on all findings related to our search for the central sphere."

"So what happened? Is he mad at you for something?"

"Like you don't know." Lorian sulked.

"Well, I don't . . ." Trip admitted. "Not really. What happened last night?"

Lorian paused before spilling his story: "Uncle Jon had security come and find me last night. In my old hiding place? Tells security I have to leave. Quotes one of his instant bullshit rules: 'No congregating in the access tubes.' Like what the heck? We used to have campouts in there."

"So you were congregating?"

"I had a friend with me."

"I think Cap'n was trying to be kind," Trip suggested. "He could have said 'No disabling the sensor grid and lying to us about it.'"

Lorian didn't bother to deny it. "So what am I supposed to do?" he implored. "Where I am I supposed to go for a little privacy? I can't even pick my nose without the whole world knowing about it and disapproving."

Trip smiled at the vivid metaphor. The kid had a point. And remembering his own "explorations" of the previous night, he felt a twinge of guilt. As a dad, he would need to set the record straight on one point:

"Ah . . . that reminds me . . ." Trip scanned the empty corridor over Lorian's shoulder. "What I told you about mindmelding? . . .That it's forbidden? See, your mom corrected me. Seems melding is another one of those things that everyone _does,_ but no one really _talks about."_ Only now did Trip dare glance back at his son. He found him scowling furiously.

"All of you _have_ been spying on me!"

"No, I've been respecting your privacy," Trip stated firmly. "And keeping out of your business—to the point that Uncle Jon probably thinks I'm nuts. Last night he asked me where you were—and I took a guess. I had to tell him something."

"Did you have to tell him the _truth?_" Lorian asked, distressed.

"Of course I had to tell the truth!" Trip replied emphatically. "He's my commanding officer!"

As if hearing his name, Jon poked his head out the door. He noted Lorian with a nod and a disappointed look.

"Captain," Lorian muttered, looking sullen.

"Recruit," Jon answered with a stern, if somewhat wounded expression. "Trip, we're starting in two minutes."

Trip acknowledged this.

Now it was Lorian's turn to look hurt. "See, he won't let me in."

"What did you do to piss him off?"

Now Lorian's gaze skittered across the walls and finally rested on his shoes. "He doesn't like Tiva."

"Yeah, I've noticed . . . but that's not an answer."

Lorian just shrugged.

"We'll get to the bottom of this later," Trip warned, checking his chronometer. The meeting was about to start.

"Dad," Lorian called as Trip started for the door, "I know something about the shipwreck."

Trip turned back. The boy could be stalling; but his, his observations were so often dead on. "So, it's definitely a ship?" Trip asked.

"Yes, it's a Triannon ship."

That had been one of the probable scenarios.

"Tiva and Paris noticed the debris outside the window," Lorian explained. "Tiva thought it looked familiar and was upset. She called me and we pulled up some of the ship's sensor data from Paris's computer."

Trip grasped his son's shoulder, flashing back to his days of captivity aboard a Triannon missionary ship, to a crowd of young faces filing into the worship arena to flirt with deadly anomalies. He'd tried to warn them away . . .

"You mean the wreck is _our_ ship," Trip asked in a hoarse whisper.

"That's unlikely," Lorian assured him.

Trip relaxed slightly. "How unlikely?"

"How many Triannon ships are there altogether?" Lorian inquired.

"I don't know. Maybe fifty?"

"Then the odds are 2%."

Trip smiled wanly. Lorian was a prodigy, not an oracle. Why did they all expect so much from him?

"Go and tell that to Tiva," Trip said, clapping his son on the shoulder. "She needs you right now."

Lorian seemed surprised.

Trip ducked through the door to the conference room, his heart still pounding.

"I've invited Fiona to this meeting," Jon began. "She can summarize the knowledge to date."

Fionna had been manning the viewer all night. "It is a large ship, Triannon in design. We've found an inscription and translated it. The name of the ship is _Sacred Mysteries."_

_It's not my old ship,_ Trip realized. He closed his eyes and took a breath. Only now did he realize he'd been holding it.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Fiona said, noticing Trip's relief. "I wasn't thinking . . ."

"It's just that a lot of my fellow passengers were kids . . ." Trip explained.

"Oh," Fiona continued, apologetically. "Yes, these shipwrecks are so tragic. I'm not sure we should have parked so close to the site. . . .So far we haven't visually detected any bodies, though one would expect to find that in the catastrophic decompression."

"Escape pods?" Hoshi asked.

"I'm afraid not. Unsurprisingly, there are no life signs."

"Maybe the ship was relatively empty when it met its fate?" Travis suggested hopefully.

"That would fit our theory that this ship was intent on a suicide attack against the nearby sphere," Jon said.

Trip interjected: "We ought to tell Tiva as soon as possible—that the ship isn't hers. Ease her mind. She knows the ship is Triannon . . . she saw a piece out the window."

"That's too bad." Jon noted unhappily. "I was hoping to keep her out of the loop."

"But we might need her help . . ." Trip objected.

Jon smiled indulgently. "It's only natural, Trip, that you would. . . _empathize_ somewhat with the Triannons; having spent time with them; but we can be confident these feelings will never undermine your commitment to this mission."

"Cap'n, what are you trying to say?"

"I am trying to say that Tiva's primary loyalties are probably to her own people, just like yours are with us." Jon gave an appeasing smile, but cut off any response with a raised hand. "We can talk after the meeting."

Trip knew to be patient. He would have a chance to make his case.

"Fiona? What else did you find?" Jon asked.

"Very little in the way of an explanation. From the deformation, it appears that _somehow_ a great torque was applied to this ship. It's as if some giant grabbed hold of the hull and the bow—and _twisted."_

"Malcolm?"

"I concur, Captain. I've never seen anything quite like it. An explosion wouldn't quite do the trick. On a smaller scale, I'd suggest an anomaly, but we've never seen one big enough to do this kind of damage."

"We haven't seen an anomoly _at all_ since the thermobaric cloud barrier dissipated," Hoshi added.

"Another good point," Jon moderated. "Well, I'm not satisfied with the 'giant monster' theory. We need to send a crew over to that ship, tap into their computers, and find out what happened in the final moments of their voyage. Ideally, we'd also like a Triannon map of the sphere system. The wreckage is orbiting something. I'd like to know if we've found the central sphere."

Trip spoke up: "Jon, the way that ship is ripped open, I'm almost sure we won't be able to power up the computers. Depending on how the data is stored, the maps may be lost. But if this is a Triannon ship, I'm pretty sure there will be security cameras everywhere, and they seem to be modular . . . If we go get a security camera from their bridge and bring it back, we may be able to access the data and learn what happened right before decompression."

"OK, Trip, Hoshi, get suited up. You two are on the away team. Travis will take you over. Dismissed."

"Is my EV suit back from the quartermaster?" Trip asked the room.

"If not, use mine," Malcolm called, as the officers filed out.

Trip hung back to talk with the Captain.

Hoshi gave Trip a brave ghost of a smile as she headed to the door, and he winked back supportively. Sneaking around on shipwrecks was still one of Hoshi's least favorite assignments, but after twenty years in the Expanse, she was getting to be a pro.

* * *

Five minutes later, Trip was still hung up in the conference room, trying to win over the skeptical captain.

"I know we can't suit her up, but Tiva could help me navigate this shipwreck remotely," Trip implored.

"I'll ask you one more time, is she on our side?"

"Yes," Trip said with certainty.

"She would help us attack a sphere?" Jon looked doubtful.

Trip hesitated. "Actually . . . I get the feeling, she'd rather the spheres just disappear by themselves . . . she says she's a 'moderate' on the question of whether to take up arms."

"I'm not encouraged by that report."

"Yeah, but right now, all we want to know is who or what destroyed this ship. Why wouldn't Tiva help us with that?"

"Hoshi can read Triannon."

"She's an expert linguist; but she's no Triannon. Hoshi might miss some subtle aspect of their culture."

Jon gave a dismissive laugh, "Sorry, Trip. When I think of Triannon culture, 'subtle' isn't the first adjective that comes to mind."

The Triannons of 2153 had confronted _Enterprise_ using terrorist tactics. They had sentenced one crewmember to death after discovering the humans had broken some Triannon religious taboo. Jon had volunteered to be the victim.

Trip sighed; but, he was undeterred. "Yes, I understand why you'd say that. But trust me Cap'n: When they're not preaching and threatening unbelievers with destruction . . . they're making some pretty fine distinctions."

Jon wore a doubtful expression.

"For instance: Are the Makers multi-temporal or a-temporal? Will all the timelines have a Paradise?"

"And why does any of this matter?"

"I sure as hell don't know . . . but if that shipwrecked crew was Triannon, you can bet their purpose here was religious. I suspect, in the end, we'll need an insider to sort it all out."

Jon's grimaced in thought.

"Look," Trip pressed, "Myself, I'd just as soon stick my hand in an open plasma conduit as feel the Breath of the Makers . . ."

Jon raised his eyebrows, sympathetically.

"But Tiva gets this stuff."

John smiled, reluctantly. He'd caved: "Once Hoshi hits a wall, we'll call her in."

"Great!" Trip exalted. "You won't be sorry, Cap'n!"

"One more thing," Jon called before Trip was able to bolt for the door. "What's up with Lorian?"

"Oh the access tube?. . ." Trip was determined to stick to the public aspects of this matter. "Well, he's always used that access tube, and he needed a place for meditation . . . ."

"I'm not worried about the meditation, Trip." Jon wore a look of fatherly concern. "I don't know if you are aware, but we have reason to suspect that your son and Tiva are involved, _romantically."_

Trip maintained a neutral expression.

Unfortunately, Jon took this as an invitation to continue. He began to pace. "We suspect your son and this Triannon woman may be engaging in an ancient Vulcan practice, an invasive form of telepathy called _meld . . ."_

Trip interrupted at last: "I know what it's called."

"And you're not concerned?" Jon asked, surprised.

"I don't know," Trip whined, throwing up his hands. "Go ask T'Pol. I'll be concerned if she gets concerned."

Jon smiled at this.

"Jon, I appreciate your looking out for my son. But he's half Vulcan. Only he can tell us what that means."

Jon finally nodded his agreement..

"He's ich'n to come back to the meetings . . ." Trip added, hopefully.

It was worth a try. But, Jon shook his head "no." "We'll talk when you get and Hoshi get back."

* * *

On her way to the bridge, T'Pol stopped by the nursery where Amanda had begun her shift.

"Amanda, I thought you might want to assure Destiny, that the shipwreck we have found, although Triannon, is not the ship on which Trip and Destiny were held captive."

Amanda smiled. "I'll tell her right away. It was thoughtful of you to stop by."

"Trip was also very thoughtful: he thought to tell Tiva."

Amanda clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Is he still mooning over that young woman?"

"No," T'Pol admitted. "But as Jon observed, it is natural he would _empathize_ with her plight." T'Pol raised an eyebrow as she said this.

Amanda laughed at the eyebrow, then became stern: "I don't care if I am an honorary Denobulan, T'Pol. I still say someone outta slap your guy upside the head: remind him he's fifty-some years old and married to the prettiest old lady on _Enterprise."_

"Your solidarity is appreciated, however, no such intervention will be necessary. Yesterday, I believe he arrived at the same conclusion on his own. "

"Oh, this sounds interesting . . ." Amanda prompted.

"It would take some time to explain."

"Well then, cut to the chase. Does this story have a happy ending?"

"Yes, it does." T'Pol confided. "Trip and I have agreed to work towards a stronger marriage—through the sharing of intimate thoughts and the pursuit of shared goals."

"Well, that sounds like a plan . . ." Both women got quiet.

"Trip told me last night he wants to have another child," T'Pol revealed.

Amanda seemed moved by this. Her eyes got moist. Finally she spoke: "Please T'Pol don't do it. It's not worth the risk to your health."

"There would be no risk to my health. We would use the biocylinder this time."

"Oh."

Amanda's flat response was atypical. She empathized openly with all of T'Pol's stories, saving her biggest outbursts for announcements of life-changing events such as this.

"I expected you would be pleased," T'Pol, admitted finally.

Amanda smiled weakly. "I would be, but . . . "

T'Pol waited stoically.

"Oh all right. . . ." Amanda pouted. "You'll find out soon enough: the biocylinder is booked solid for the next three years. Believe me when I say, Phlox would never gossip to me about his patients just because we're married. That's not how I know. I know because I want another baby _too,_ and it's impossible . . . ."

"I don't understand. Who else but us would use the biocylander for reproduction? There are only two other mixed-species couples on this ship."

"Remember: Human couples also have fertility problems, particularly after forty. _None of us_ on this ship are getting any younger."

T'Pol, frowned, grasping the implications: Even in a best-case scenario, her spouse would be elderly before their next child could reach maturity. And this same calculation applied for every other married person on the ship.

T'Pol was dazed; her eyes danced absently as she searched for a solution. "Trip is a skilled engineer," she announced at last. "He can help all of us. He can build a second biocylinder."

Amanda looked doubtful. T'Pol guessed at her thoughts: _Optimism doesn't change the laws of physics, or biology._

Trip had made rash promises during the last pregnancy: he'd save his child through a feat of engineering. And nothing had come of it.

A mother's womb was difficult to replicate, T'Pol knew. And the artificial womb in question had replacement parts available only on Denobula.

* * *

Trip jumped in the Shuttle with Travis, joining Hoshi. All three were wearing the orange and bronze environmental suits. Helmets were off.

"You were there last night," Trip started. "What happened between Lorian and Jon? And I don't need the gory details . . ."

Travis, laughed uncomfortably. "Ooo. Your boy has a temper."

"He does not!" Trip replied.

"Maybe you're just used to it, so it's not apparent," Hoshi suggested helpfully. "I'm his teacher; believe me, he's got a sharp tongue."

"So . . ." Trip prompted Travis.

"So . . ." Travis, started on his tale: "Jon wants Fiona to find Lorian, to show him the wreckage. You kid doesn't immediately show up on sensors. Fiona panics. Thinks he's been 'abducted.' Security finds him and drags him in."

"They didn't _'drag him in',"_ Trip objected.

"He had his arm twisted behind his back," Travis clarified. "He wasn't being cooperative."

"Holy shit. Who brought him in?"

"Hernandez."

"She'll get an apology."

"Good luck with that," Travis said. "You might want to extract one for the Captain while you're at it."

"What'd he do?"

"Jon says, 'This will go on your record.' Says, 'I can't show favoritism just because your mom is First Officer and your dad was Chief Engineer.'"

Trip nodded his agreement.

"Says, 'How would that look to your peers?' Lorian answers, 'Like how people say you got your job because your father worked with Zephram Cochrane?'"

Trip sucked in his breath.

"That's exactly what Fiona said!" Travis laughed. "Sorry, it's not funny. Still . . . it was a pretty impressive display."

Trip shook his head in dismay.

"Oh!" Travis continued. "Then he said he didn't mean it; he was 'just making an analogy.'"

That _did_ sound like Lorian. When Lorian took a jab he usually disguised it as an innocent observation.

Trip was angry now. "Man, oh man. Next he'll take a phase pistol and shoot his own foot."

"Don't think about it," Hoshi scolded. "Were almost to the hull. We need to focus for the EVA." They all put on their helmets.

* * *

**PART B**

The ship was so mangled there was no place to dock. So they opened the hatch and Trip and Hoshi floated free into space, heading towards a crack in the hull.

"Careful of these jagged edges," Trip warned his teammate as they sailed into a dark crevasse in the ripped metal. Their flashlights hit on a far wall and soon they landed on that same wall: Trip's metallic boots grabbed the wall and he stood up, perpendicular to the floor.

"Hey what are you doing?" Hoshi asked.

"The security cameras I need to get to are on the wall. I might as well walk on it." Trip told her.

"But I need to be on the floor so the signage will appear right side up," Hoshi protested.

"Be my guest," Trip answered.

Hoshi climbed to the floor and stood up perpendicular to Trip. In this 90 degree configuration, they proceeded towards the bow of the ship.

"I don't like this," Hoshi complained to the back of Trip's head. "It's disorienting."

Trip tramped down the wall and joined her on the floor. "Actually, being 'down here' does help me get my bearings." He shot a beam of light down the pitch black hallway. "It's spooky, 'cause the layout's the same as the ship I was on. Did I tell you we slept in dorm rooms?" Trip shone his light into a room with rows of bunks four levels high.

"AHH!" Hoshi screamed.

Trip's heart skipped a beat as it registered what he was looking at. Rows of dead people lay still in their beds. Fifteen in all.

"They are _strapped in their bunks!"_ Hoshi, shouted in horror.

"It's as if these people knew the ship would loose artificial gravity," Trip mused, suppressing a shiver. Their clothing told him the deceased were adults males. He wondered if he should approach to investigate further. They were probably all strangers, Trip decided. And on the off chance he had met one of them before, identification would be difficult now. Decompression turned a body into an ugly, swollen mess.

"Do you suppose it's a ritual suicide?" Hoshi asked.

Trip shrugged, feigning indifference. It helped him focus on the job at hand.

Hoshi pointed her flashlight down the hall to a sign, "_T'shok Viklo,"_ She announced. "Central Planning."

"It's the bridge," Trip translated. They steeped forward, bodies weightless.

Trip placed his magnetized tool box on the wall, pulled out a crow bar, and went to work on the door. It was scary working with these heavy tools in the vacumn. A tool designed to manipulate solid titatium could easily slip and rip the flexible skin of an environmental suit. But soon the door was sliding open, nice and easy. "OK, brace yerself," Trip warned, with one last grunt. "This might not be pretty."

Trip and Hoshi stepped boldly onto the alien bridge, waving flashlights defensively into dark corners. But the place was completely deserted. _No bloated bodies bumping against the furniture,_ Trip noted with relief. This was convenient, but also something of a mystery.

Trip's flashlight landed on something familiar. "Here's a security camera," He announced. Let me see if I can access its data." Trip reached up and fiddled. Soon he had extracted a small doo-dad. "I think this is a data clip," Trip said happily, pinching the object carefully between his gloved fingers . . . "Hoshi, maybe can you help me find a monitor with a portal this size?"

"It would be easier if you could get the power on so I could see . . ."

"I can't power up this whole room. Maybe one monitor . . . ."

Just then the whole room did light up, just for an instant, like a flash of lightning.

_What??!!!_

Hoshi's eyes were wide. "We're being shot at!"

Malcolm's voice sounded in their helmets: "It's another Triannon ship. Defending the wreckage!"

Trip shouted back: "I've got the data chip. Beam us outta here!"

"NO!" Hoshi shouted in a panic.

"The transporter's working fine," Trip assured her. "We did maintenance on it just last week."

"It's not that. It's just that . . . we aren't supposed to HAVE a transporter."

Trip squinted skeptically. "What are you talking about?"

Before Hoshi could, answer the Triannon bridge dissolved and Trip and Hoshi were rematerializing on _Enterprise._ Travis was right there to greet them. The tingly sensation subsided, and Trip jumped from the transportor alcove, one step behind Hoshi, who had resumed her protest:

"Trinnnons need to stay ignorant of transporter technology so that a hundred years from now the younger Captain Archer, can escape from his death sentence, when a Triannon rebel group hijacks _Enterprise._ Remember, he will choose the transporter as his preferred method of 'execution'?"

"Heh. Yeah, I do remember that," Trip chuckled. The captain had played his death scene to perfection, stepping onto the transporter with 'last words' so moving, Trip and T'Pol didn't even have to fake their choked goodbyes. "Don't worry. The Triannons probably don't even know we left," Trip told them. "Their ships are pathetically low-tech, they're designed to get passengers from point A to point B, and that's about it. I don't think Triannons even scan for biosigns."

Travis seemed pleased. "We'd best remind the Captain."

The bridge crew calmly watched the Triannons fire additional rounds at a lifeless shipwreck.

"This is Prenom Yarkik," A Triannon shouted from his command post. "Leave the vicinity immediately!"

"I'd rather not." Archer answered, unperturbed. "We are conducting forensic work to learn how this ship met it's fate."

"This ship is Triannon." More flashes lit up the wreck. "It's no concern of yours!"

"Why are they still firing?" Jon asked his crew in a low voice.

"Captain," T'Pol answered softly, "It's a message from Travis. He wants you to ask the Triannons to stop firing on our away team." She pronounced this last part slowly and carefully.

It made no sense to Jon. "Trip and Hoshi aren't back?!!!" he shouted.

T'Pol took charge. "Captain," she said in a loud, steady voice, sure to be overheard by the Triannons. "We don't have the technology to make them instantly disappear over there and reappear over here. They are stuck there until we can get a shuttlepod to them." She raised an eyebrow.

Jon jumped into action. "Prenom Yarkik," he called to his counterpart, "Cease firing immediately! We need to evacuate our crew. "Trip! Hoshi!" he called to the air. "Hang in there. We'll send a shuttlepod once things cool off."

Jon turned his back to the viewscreen, his expression dissolving into relief. He raised his brows at T'Pol: _Yet another close call!_

* * *

The Triannons had agreed to stop shooting so the away team could return. On the bridge, a pod crawled slowly across the huge viewscreen towards the wreckage. Travis was maneuvering the shuttle towards a large crevasse in the hull that was hopefully out of the Triannons field of view.

Jon confidently addressed his counterpart, a religious "Prenom," on the opposite ship: "I assure you we would never desecrate the final resting place of a Triannon crew. We found them tied to their bunks.

"Because _our_ crew placed them there," the Prenom shouted. "Out of RESPECT."

"We will gladly honor any Triannon customs with regard to the dead. Just tell us what they are. We didn't disturb the bodies or remove any personal effects. All we want is information to help explain this disaster."

"How do we know it wasn't _you_ that attacked the _Sacred Mysteries?_" the Prenom accused.

"The _Sacred Mysteries_ has been twisted almost beyond recognition. I've never witnessed anything like it in all my twenty years in space. How could our weapons or anyone's weapons cause this type of damage?"

The Triannon tilted his head, as if conceding the point. "So what is your interest with the wreck?"

"We are trellium traders." Jon offered a disarmingly goofy smile. "For the past several weeks we have seen no anomalies. The spheres no longer seem to be working. If there are no more anomalies, we should get out of the trellium business."

"The Makers are faithful. The 'anomalies,' as you call them, will return."

"Not if the spheres have been destroyed," Jon countered. "We suspect this ship was damaged while attacking the sphere."

"Your theory is preposterous!" the Prenom scoffed.

"Do you have a better one?"

The alien gave no answer.

"Do you understand why the Makers have dropped their Arms?" Jon asked.

"It is a mystery."

"Perhaps we could solve these mysteries scientifically?"

Jon extended a hand in invitation. The Prenom scowled. "Scientific investigation . . . ."

". . . has led many astray." Jon finished the sentence with a weary smile.

"You are familiar with our gospel," the Prenom noted with interest.

"I've received some . . . instruction," Jon admitted.

"And yet you continue to trade in Trellium, helping men to hide from the Breath of the Makers . . ."

"The Breath of the Makers can maim people. It can destroy an unprotected ship."

"Your faith is weak . . ." the Prenom lectured, "But it can be strengthened. The Makers are merciful. They grant forgiveness to all who prostrate themselves before the power of the spheres."

"I'll keep that in mind," Jon said, refusing to argue. "And I _do_ want to offer my sincerest apologies if we have intruded on a funeral"

The Prenom's scowl vanished.

"Our condolences on your loss," Jon added.

The Prenom bowed his head, graciously. "It is kind of you to be concerned, but personally, we are fine. These people were not close friends; in fact their religious views were quite different from ours."

"Well, that's a surprise . . . " Jon stated flatly. "Were they heretics?"

The Prenom gave Jon a puzzled look. "No, they were Antiquarians."

"Antiquarians?"

"Antiquarians seek to preserve ancient ways of thinking. They insist the spheres were built in 9 days, though modern prophets tell us they were built in 10 days."

"And you are . . ."

"Modernists."

"And yet you honor the Antiquarians in death."

"Modernists and Antiquarians both venerate the same Spheres. We discovered the wreck and felt a duty to ensure its crew would be properly interred."

"I respect that. I promise that once we determine what happened at this sphere, we will be on our way. Perhaps you would be willing to facilitate us in our investigation?"

"I have not been authorized to investigate these people . . ." the Prenom began hesitantly.

"But you're curious, nonetheless," Archer's eyes twinkled. "How many people were on the ship?"

"Just fifteen."

"And why were they here?"

"This is the Sphere of Penance. These people came to confess their sins."

"What sins?"

"Doubt, lack of courage . . . it is impossible to know."

"It is not impossible," Archer announced. "We have in our possession a recording of the ship's final moments. Presumably, you have a device that could play this recording?"

* * *

When the Triannons expressed a reluctance to cooperate with "unbelievers," Tiva was called to the bridge. She arrived in a tan dress, of heavy material, that she hadn't worn since her arrival. The aliens, displayed larger-than-life across the Humans' viewscreen, jumped to attention when she appeared.

"I know who you are!" the Prenom sputtered in fury. "You are that wayward Docent who ran off with a Seeker! Why have you allied yourself with those of lesser knowledge?"

"These Human possess a great deal of knowledge," Tiva answered boldly. "Like the Makers, they are trans-temporal beings. They have traveled here from the future. They have told me secrets previously hidden from Triannons. They warn of a coming civil war among our peoples that will destroy our world if we do not repent and change our ways."

* * *

If only the captain had had a giant hook, he might have pulled her off the stage. As it was he could only scold her after the fact: "You weren't authorized to broadcast our secrets."

"I am trying to save my world," Tiva answered stubbornly. "I would do anything to save it, just as you would do anything to save yours. AND you need my help."

The captain glared down his nose, "I appreciate your position . . ."

"Do you, Captain?" She glared right back. "I gave up everything to bring Trip and Destiny back to you."

"We can never repay that debt . . ."

"On the contrary, I believe you can. When I take the Triannons the data chip you want them to have, I would also like to bring them proof of my claims to secret knowledge."

"Specifically?"

"Video of our future world as you visited it."

Jon looked unhappy. "We are trying as best we can to preserve our timeline . . ." he explained quietly. It sounded lame.

Rostov spoke up: "Captain, a record of those events may not even exist. Remember how the Triannons erased our database after they hijacked the ship? Files added throughout the rest of their stay would probably have been lost in the reboot."

"Well that settles that," Jon said preemptively.

Tiva gave a frustrated sigh. "Very well, I'll just have to manage without your help." She looked around the bridge with pleading eyes. No one came to her aid.

Just then Trip, Tiva, and Hoshi stepped off the lift and onto the bridge. Tiva's eyes raked Trip's with an urgent look he couldn't decipher. The away team parted to let her onto the lift.

T'Pol waited until Tiva was out of earshot. "Jon," she said quietly. "There IS a chance those files still exist."

"I've made up mind!" Jon barked back. "Does anyone _else_ today want to question my qualifications for command?"

A stunned silence filled the room.

"Rostov, you have the bridge," Jon finished, and he turned to leave.

In making this delegation, the captain had bypassed his second-in-command and possibly Trip, whose current rank relative to Rostov had never been clarified.

"Captain?" Rostov called, sounding startled.

"I'll be in my office," Jon answered gruffly. "_Political appointee . . ._" he muttered inexplicably as he brushed past the group at the lift.

T'Pol shot Trip a questioning look as the lift descended with the captain.

Trip raised a hand. "I'll get this one," he volunteered and turned to follow Jon.

Trip caught up to Jon in his office.

"I apologize for Lorian. Travis told me what he said."

"You've got nothing to apologize for, Trip. Lorian is responsible for his own words." The captain gave his friend a tight smile. "Though I admit, I never thought I'd hear that smear from anyone close . . . Even A.G. steered clear . . ."

Trip took a seat across from the captain and leaned forward to assure him. "I doubt this outburst is even about you. It's probably just the hormones raging."

Jon nodded unhappily.

"He would have gone off on me if I had been the one to find him with a girl," Trip continued. "He's never, ever admitted to _having_ a love life. That's why I stayed in bed."

"Trip, I wonder if it's more than that," Trip waited attentively as the Captain got up to pace the room. He still seemed agitated.

"I'm anxious about Lorian," Jon continued. "I fear this Vulcan 'melding' may be linked to aggressive behavior."

Trip's feigned confusion: "What? Based on this _one_ incident!"

"I was thinking of the _Vakhlas_ . . ." Jon persisted. He shot Trip a worried look.

Trip tried not to get angry. Jon had thrown one of those unconventional Vulcans in the brig for assaulting T'Pol. Of course Trip had been oblivious to the trouble at the time. Trip flat-out rejected the comparison Jon seemed to be making. _My son isn't like that._ He was certain about this. "What I learned from the _Vakhlas,"_ Trip stated evenly, "Was that Vulcans come in all shapes and sizes."

Jon seemed to get the point, nodding reluctantly.

Trip tried again to calm the captain: "Look, Lorian's comment was way out of line. But he said it to make you mad, not because he believes it. Let me ask him if he's fit'n in regular mediation. Seems like he needs to get rebalanced. With a girlfriend eat'n up his time, he's probably been cut'n some corners . . ."

"So where is that data clip?" Jon asked abruptly.

"Right here." Trip pulled it from a pocket and handed it over.

"The Triannons have agreed to play this recording for us. Tiva convinced them."

Trip grinned appreciatively. "See? I told you she was somethin'."

* * *

Jon, Fiona, Travis, Malcolm, Hoshi, Trip, T'Pol, and Rostov were gathered on the bridge, all wearing solemn expressions.

"Can they hear us?" Hoshi asked, referring to the Triannons on the other ship.

"No," Jon answered. "But I'll ask you all to save your comments til the end of the viewing. We'll be watching the security camera recording simultaneously with the Triannon crew, picking audio and visuals off a monitor on their ship. We want to be respectful. Needless to say, it will be unpleasant to watch this tragedy unfold. Prepare yourselves for anything."

"I'm plenty prepared to see the _Sacred Mysteries_ do a nosedive straight into the central sphere," Rostov said.

"You and me both," the Captain agreed. "But if that happens, save your cheers for the _second_ viewing."

Trip took a step closer to T'Pol. Fiona reached for Travis's hand. And Rostov crossed his fingers. In learning about the fate of this Triannon ship they would be learning about their own fate as well. If the _Sacred Mysteries_ had been wrecked in an intentional or unintentional collision with the sphere, collapsing the sphere system, putting an end to the treacherous anomalies and the confining theromobaric cloud barrier . . . well, it would save future generations worlds of trouble.

The recording began to play across the viewscreen. The Triannons looked fat and blurry, Travis let go of his wife and quickly resized the picture.

On screen, the Triannons swayed and chanted. Their song had an eerie beauty. Hoshi began to translate:

"Makers we have offended you.  
We seek your healing.  
We throw ourselves  
Upon your infinite mercy.  
We trust in your infinite goodness  
Only instruct us."

"That's Targon!" Trip exclaimed, recognizing his former nemesis. "And our old Prenom!" he added, his excitement overriding attention to protocol.

The recorded Triannons stopped singing and began to murmur and point towards their viewer, which stretched away from the camera at a steep angle.

The display on the angled viewer made no sense. A huge amorphous blob seemed to wobble on the Triannons' screen. Travis fiddled with the focus.

"Leave it!" Fiona demanded. "The people are still in focus."

Hoshi was translating: "They say, 'It won't hurt us . . . we are blessed! We are blessed!'"

Waviness quickly engulfed the whole scene. The Triannons began to rejoice; they appeared unharmed despite having been swallowed by the proverbial whale.

"I feel the Breath . . . I feel the sweet Breath of the Makers . . . I am forgiven," Hoshi interpreted.

Nothing happened for a long while, while the Triannons wandered around amazed, arms outstretched to sense their new environment.

"I don't get it," Jon said finally. "Why don't they feel the effects of this anomaly?"

T'Pol answered. "The larger the anomaly, the less likely it is to do small-scale damage. The laws of physics vary more gradually within the volume of a larger anomaly, and the difference between its edge and normal space is less abrupt."

Suddenly a loud, slow, low-pitched groan filled the room, followed by a short screech. The Triannons froze at the unmistakable sound of overstressed metal. Everyone, onscreen and off, seemed to realize at once the inevitability of large-scale damage to the ship's hull.

A Triannon spoke in confusion. "Why would the Makers betray us?" Hoshi translated.

Rostov shouted back at the confused Triannon, "You're all going to die! Your Makers don't care. Ram the damn sphere!" He banged his console in frustration. "Go on. Get even!"

Chaos erupted for the hapless alien crew. A whooshing filled the room, their robes fluttered around their legs and arms, and suddenly they were blown out of camera view.

There were two sickening thuds, in quick succession. Then silence descended on the doomed ship.

Jon spoke cautiously: "Is it over that quickly?"

"Yes," T'Pol answered. "There is no more air to transmit sound."

The humans watched a recording of a desolate Triannon bridge for another half a minute before Jon nodded sadly to Travis, who turned off the display.

"Prenom Yarkik is hailing us," Hoshi announced.

Jon wiped a hand down his face, pulling at his jaw. And then he was ready.

"Onscreen!" he ordered.

* * *

Incredibly, the Triannons were angry at the humans. Now a living Prenom shouted at them from the viewscreen, "This recording makes no sense. Explain this!"

Jon answered plainly: "It is what it is."

"It is a forgery," Yarkik insisted, "You try to shake our faith. The Sphere Builders forgive all who throw themselves upon their mercy."

"Keep the data chip," Jon told him, exasperated. "Test it scientifically if you faith is so strong. It is completely real. We don't know enough about Triannon language or customs to fake such a thing."

Everyone was disappointed. After further systematic analysis of the data, they all gathered in the conference room.

"So the sphere is not destroyed," Malcolm stated bitterly.

Fiona, spoke up. "I don't know if this make you feel any better, but I just found out it probably wouldn't make any difference if it was. This is NOT the Central Sphere—the one where Trip was treated for his trans-dimensional illness. As the aliens told us, this is the Sphere of Penance. I have been conversing with Tiva on the other ship. She assures us that the Sphere of Penance and the Hospital of the Makers are two separate things.

"So we are back to square one," Travis noted bleakly.

"I concur," T'Pol announced. "One might even say we find ourselves at square _negative_ one." She raised both eyebrows for emphasis. "Theoretical models predict that an idled sphere system will create particularly large anomalies as it powers back up."

"The system burbs and sputters as it comes back to life," Rostov mused.

"An apt metaphor," T'Pol told him.

Malcolm shook his head, dissatisfied. "So the Sacred Mysteries just _happened_ to be at the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Hoshi smiled enigmatically. "We may never know the truth for sure, but I have a _linguistic_ theory of the events leading to the destruction of the _Sacred Mysteries."_

"Well, you look like the cat that's swallowed the canary," Jon noted with approval. "Please, tell us this theory."

"From analyzing the subspace chatter, and piecing it together with information from our new Triannon allies, I believe that Trip and Tiva's sudden departure caused upheaval on their old ship." She glanced to Trip, "From what I gather, you two were a pretty charismatic couple."

She must have intended it at a complement, but now all eyes were on a nervous Trip. "I was always undermining the lesson plan," he explained once again, "asking inconvenient questions and contradicting specific details. I told them all I knew about these spheres. My teacher, Tiva, let me run my mouth—which was strange. Until it dawned on me: she's actually on my side."

Hoshi continued, "So two popular shipmates defect. The Prenom and his second-in-command are demoted over this. Triannons believe that bad things happen to bad people. So the disgraced crewmembers join a pilgrimage to the Sphere of Penance to be forgiven for their failure. The Sphere burps back to life and everyone is killed."

Malcolm objected again. "It can't be a coincidence that a gigantic, never-before-seen mega-anomaly appears just as the _Sacred Mysteries_ approaches this sphere."

"It can be, but the odds are . . ." Hoshi scanned the room expectantly. "Where is our little odds-maker when we need him?" Her reference to Lorian elicited fond smiles, even from the captain. "Lets just say the odds are _long,"_ Hoshi concluded.

"We are waiting for your _linguistic_ theory," Jon reminded.

Hoshi began her story: "Imagine that the Sphere Builders shut down their sphere system—just for routine maintenance. Around the same time, rumors are spreading of a ship where heretical students run wild, where adults drink milk, where seekers attack the spheres. Someone makes this very accusation. Pretty soon it's common knowledge that Triannons have literally _attacked the spheres."_

"And even the Sphere Builders believe it . . ." Travis said in wonder.

"And defend themselves from the next Triannon ship that approaches . . ." Malcolm finished. "Of course!"

The note of admiration in his voice drew some strange looks.

"It's what I would do," he explained, "Assuming I was trying to take over the galaxy."

* * *

Tiva had stayed behind to "talk shop" with her compatriots. The Triannons were having a hard time reconciling the shocking deaths of the Penitents with received wisdom. Tiva, for her part, had long suspected that the myth of the spheres was but a wavy version of some more substantial truth—like an object viewed through an anomaly. It had been a long time since Tiva had engaged in a freewheeling religious debate and she was quite enjoying herself, despite the unhappy circumstances.

"I believe the Makers built ALL THE Spheres of the Chosen Realm, not just the 59," Tiva said expansively.

"So you agree with the modernists: there may be 64 spheres?"

"I suspect there are too many spheres to count. The Makers also created all the stars, planets, and moons!"

"Every heavenly body within the Chosen Realm was created by the Makers?" someone asked incredulously.

Another asked, "But what of the 64? Are you saying they aren't special?"

"We worship those spheres because of their mystery, strength, and beauty. They are powered by black holes. But our galaxy itself is powered by a black hole. And so are the galaxies throughout the universe. It suggest to me that out true Makers have created the cosmos itself . . ."

"How do you know about the Realms Beyond? Have you been _practicing astronomy?_ If the Makers had wanted us to practice astronomy . . .

"They would have unveiled the skies . . ."

A mummer filled the room. The skies had been unveiled for several weeks now . . .

"You claim your Human friends are prophets?"

"Prophets, yes, because they come from the future. But they are also fellow Seekers. They seek the truth through exploration."

* * *

Lorian listened in on his . . . girlfriend as she wowed the Triannons. _Her facts were wrong, and her logic flawed, but her creativity was breathtaking._

"You're doing great," Lorian cheered from his seat on the floor in a corridor of _Enterprise._

Tiva's laughter filled his ear. [_You think so?_] she asked at last. She must have found a private corner of her own.

"Yeah," Lorian said, amazed. "Hey, I wish I could help."

[_"You can. Convince your captain he needs to release video evidence of the future destruction of my planet. He says it doesn't exist, but . . ."_]

" . . .That's a load of shit," Lorian finished.

Lorian heard familiar footsteps padding down the hallway. With an awful certainty he knew it would be his dad. His father had promised "We'll get to the bottom of this later." Trip rounded the corner and stopped a few feet from his son's spot on the floor. Whether Lorian was sitting or standing, his dad would always tower over him. Lorian sighed, reached in his pocket, and remotely turned off his earpiece.

* * *

Trip was trying to lecture Lorian, but somehow all this got turned around. Now Trip was defending himself to his kid. Or maybe he wasn't a kid? He was increasingly refusing to act like one.

"It's ridiculous," Lorian argued. "I understand why we can't go back to Earth. But you're telling me, we're going to hide our _transporter_ for the next hundred years?"

"Capt'n Archer's younger self needs an escape route when he's captured by Triannons in a hundred years and is sentenced to death. You can't blame him for being a little concerned about this."

"We already used the transporter around Triannons. _You_ used it two years ago during your medical crisis."

"It was an emergency."

"And this isn't? Tiva needs those files. Here whole world is at stake." Lorian could tell his dad agreed. "If we convince the Triannons that it would be a good idea to avoid a holy war that ends in a holocaust, then young Captain Archer won't even be captured by a faction in that war."

"I see what you're saying."

"There must be something left. Some record of these key events."

"Jon said 'no', and it's his call to make. He doesn't want to take the risk. Sometimes the captain just goes with his gut."

"If he had guts, he'd go with the most logical choice, even if it puts himself in a tiny bit of danger—which it doesn't."

Trip folded his arms across his chest. He was listening.

"See, it's too late to preserve the old timeline," Lorian continued. "By living in this Expanse we change it. We can best protect the other _Enterprise,_ by making it certain they are never called out to this wasteland. We can ensure the Weapon is never built by allying ourselves with the species of the Expanse, finding common cause, convincing them that the Sphere Builders are their enemy and we are their friends."

"You make a convincing case," Trip agreed. "Too bad you aren't there to make it at the meetings, where it counts. You pissed off the captain, your mentor and biggest supporter." He spread his arms in frustration. "Apologize already!"

"But sometimes he's just _wrong._ It's all so arbitrary."

"Well, get used to it. It's called the chain of command. Things don't always go my way, either, and you don't see me mouthing off."

"No, I sure don't that," Lorian muttered. It sounded like an accusation.

"Look me in the eye young man." Trip caught his attention and held it. Lorian's blue eyes danced with youthful fury. "What's gotten into you? You didn't used to act like this."

"Maybe I grew up."

"Doesn't look that way from where I'm standing, boy! How can you be so reckless with people's feelings? How can you be so reckless with your own future?"

Trip eyed him suspiciously. "And how do you know what Tiva wants to do? She left the meeting and went straight to the other ship. Are you two . . . _bonded?"_

"Yes," Lorian answered levelly. "If that will get people to respect our relationship . . . then, sure: I'm bonded to Tiva."

Trip searched his son's face for a clue. Tiva had promised him they wouldn't have sex.

"Respect has to be earned," Trip stated. "Act responsibly and we'll respect you. You can't be hanging out in the access tubes till all hours just because you have a girlfriend. You admit you aren't meditating. Heck, you aren't even sleeping. "

"Uncle Jon doesn't care about the access tubes being congested. He just wants to harass me."

"Wake up, Lorian! You're his favorite recruit! Until you go and tell him, 'People say you got your job by nepotism,'" Trip shook his head in disbelief. "And by the way, _What people?!_"

"Carlos," Lorian mumbled.

"Well, you can't tell that to Uncle Jon. So you realize he's always gonna wonder if it was me or your mother who came up with that one."

"I didn't think of that. He just got me mad."

"So you'll think twice next time?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you'll meditate?"

Lorian rolled his eyes, but didn't' argue.

Finally they were getting somewhere. Trip heaved a sigh of relief. "Look, the Capt'n is going to holler at you sometimes. He's the Capt'n. Sometimes he'll be right and sometimes he'll be wrong. Learn a little deference, and you'll climb the ladder quicker . . . Look what happened to me." Trip was proud of his early promotions. "Once you rise through the ranks, you can advise him all you like."

"But I don't want to be Director of Engineering Education," Lorian pouted. "I want to be Chief Engineer."

Trip clenched his fists.

Lorian continued, "I hope they let you direct the next school play."

Trip's face turned red. His hand seemed to tremble. "When did you become so ill-mannered? I NEVER talked to my old man this way!"

* * *

Lorian felt horrible. So he shrugged. His dad would sort it out. His dad had infinite patience.

"I'm done try'n," Trip said abruptly. "We'll survive just fine without your help. Go on, and don't come back til you can control that mouth."

Lorian was ready to make up. He approached his dad, but flinched as the back of a hand flew past his face. It didn't land.

"I said, git outta here!"

Lorian couldn't have been more stunned. He felt like he was watching the totally reliable warp core go critical. It didn't seem possible. His dad raised his hand again. _An empty threat?_

Lorian wasn't sure. He retreated. Tears were burning at his eyes, but he couldn't think where he could hide. He didn't want to go to access tube 2, where this whole mess had started. He had promised Carlos he would steer clear of the boys' quarters. Carlos would be hanging out there with Paris. Lorian headed for the shuttle bay. He had to pull himself together and contact Tiva.

He clicked on his earpiece. "Tiva, call me when you get a chance."

He waited anxiously for ten minutes, and then she answered. [_Lorian, you'll never believe this: they want me to stay and teach . . ._]

His world came crashing down.

Lorian's Third Foremother T'Mir had once been in this situation. Her safe and boring world had fallen apart when, hovering over Earth in 1958, the impulse manifold on her science vessel had malfunctioned. Landing on an alien planet, she and her coworkers had survived by their wits.

_I'm just like Third Foremother, Lorian told himself. I can do this . . ._

* * *

It was the evening, and Jon was in the shower when they paged him from the bridge.

"Jon," a confused crewman called, "The Triannons just jumped to warp!"

Jon turned off the water.

"I'm not sure we need them any more," Jon answered calmly.

"But they took Tiva with them!"

Jon rolled his eyes. "Where is Lorian?"

"Lorian?" There was a long pause. "Seems he's off the grid, as usual . . . "

"Begin a shipwide search!"

"Captain . . .?"

"_Just do it!_"

* * *

Thirty minutes later, Shuttlepod 2 was discovered missing. Sensors said it was still in the shuttlebay. Random crewmembers had actually seen Pod 2 leave for the Triannon ship. They'd assumed Travis was heading out to pick up Tiva.

* * *

In the Tucker quarters, Trip and T'Pol were desperately retracing their steps to find their lost boy. "It could be the pon farr . . ." T'Pol said, "You refused to make arrangements . . ."

"No, it's not that. I was talking to him right before he left. He was making too much sense."

"Then, I fear it is my fault," T'Pol continued. "I should have arranged a Kahs Wahn to mark his passage into adulthood."

"That desert camping ritual? How would that have helped?"

"It would have allowed him to prove his competence and maturity without having to rebel against his parents. I fear I have treated him like a child. I did not allow him to unload the trellium shipment with the other Recurits. I told him he was allergic to trellium. Malcolm wanted to take him planetside and I refused. He wanted to see an ocean . . . "

"Stop, T'Pol. It's not your fault. I know he's mad at me."

"Why?"

"You are going to hate this. It was stupid . . ."

He was about to tell her. She reached for his arms to calm him. "Whatever you did or didn't do, whatever mistakes we have made, we will get through this together."

"I didn't want to hurt him, I just want . . . all I want . . ."

"You just want him to succeed."

He grabbed her and held her close.

It felt like the bond. Like she could read his thoughts and he knew hers.

"You would never leave me," he said.

She grabbed him tighter. His cheek was pressed hard against her hair, so he turned and gratefully kissed her head.

* * *

Lorian had been gone a week and Trip was starting to panic. The thought would strike that he might never see his son again. His wife remained surprisingly serene. When Trip demanded to know how this was possible, T'Pol told him she stilled her fears by imagining she could calm the sea. She claimed her own control was fragile and suggested a meld would help them both.

But there was no way he was into that right now.

A grey gloom descended. It felt like that last time . . . right after he'd screwed up and cleared _Enterprise_ for passage through a f*king subspace corridor—sending the whole crew 117 years into the past.

It felt like depression

And then clouds began to gather at the perimeter of the Delphic Expanse.


	5. Chapter 5

**Rating:** PG13

**Genre:** drama/adventure (double helpings of drama!)

**Disclaimer**: Everything belongs to Paramount. My eternal gratitude to the writers/actors/creators of _Star Trek: Enterprise_ and particularly the episodes "E2" and "Chosen Realm."

**Author's note:** For this chapter only, intra- and inter-ship communications by the "away" party are formated like this: _"Bridge to Commander Tucker"_; other types of messages heard through an intercom are formated like this: "* Hand me that phase welder *"

I thank, without implicating, my betas, Elessar (copyediting) and Blacknblue (general encouragement). And most of all, I thank YOU, my readers! Enjoy chapter 5 (out of7) . . . .

* * *

A week and a half after Lorian had shocked them all by running off with a Triannon, Trip was lounging in his quarters at noon. The door chimed and Trip sat up on the bed. "Yeah?" he called out.

Malcolm entered and headed towards his friend. "Look, I'm heading the investigation," he began without preamble.

"Which means you'll 'monitor' the situation just like when Destiny and I were captured."

"That's pretty much the plan." Malcolm eyes swept the room, and Trip was glad at least this part of his life was in order. "Captain says you won't come to work."

"Think Jon'll fire me?" Trip asked rhetorically.

"Tell me everything that happened, right before he ran."

Trip stood up. "I was arguing with him about recent events. He wanted to help Tiva save her world, so he's getting pretty heated. And he takes this dig at me. He wants to remind me that Rostov is Chief Engineer. . . . I got mad. I went like this."

Trip swooshed an open backhand at Malcolm's face. Malcolm caught his arm in midair.

"I wasn't going to hit you!" Trip shouted, "Or Lorian!"

"I believe you. It's an automatic reaction. See, I HAVE been hit in the face. Plenty of times."

"By your dad," Trip guessed.

Malcolm nodded. "You and T'Pol are saints compared to my parents."

"Jeez, Malcolm how did it come to this?"

"That's not why he left. He left to save the world and to have some fun while he's at it. It's not a hostage situation. He's safe. He's probably deliriously happy."

"But how can he be so selfish?"

"He'll be back, I'm sure of it."

"Maybe if I'd a been here the past few years . . ."

"He's had a good upbringing. T'Pol was here. We all pitched in."

"Why can't we bring him back?" Trip asked.

"By force? What do _you_ think? The boy's too smart. He can hack his way in or out of any ship. We didn't even notice our launch bay depressurize."

Trip nodded. He sat back down, wringing his hands distractedly.

"And we don't need him back here rotting in the brig. We want him manning his post. He'll come round." Malcolm clapped his dejected friend on the shoulder and shook him gently. "But we do need that shuttlepod."

"I can't believe he stole a shuttlepod." Trip lamented.

"Neither can I. There's no way he would take something so important to our mission. Therefore, he must be _borrowing_ it." Malcolm raised his brow.

Trip was considering this hopeful sign, when a com signal interrupted: _"Trip, T'Pol to the bridge. It's Lorian on a subspace channel."_

"He's checking in . . ." Trip said in wonder.

Malcolm grinned from ear to ear. "Go!"

Trip popped back to life. He jumped up and headed out the door.

* * *

Rushing towards the bridge, Trip met up with T'Pol. They embraced for two seconds in front of the lift.

"T'Pol, I love this kid so much I want to strangle him."

"But you must appear calm. Despite a few mistakes, our parenting was adequate. That is why we can appeal to Lorian's logic, his sense of responsibility, and his loyalty to us. It is the only way to bring him home."

They stepped through the doors.

"But, I'd like to drag him home by his ears," Trip said as the lift started moving.

T'Pol gave her husband a stern look. He nodded: _Here goes._

The doors opened and they stepped onto the bridge.

* * *

"Lorian, you're OK?" Trip asked.

_"Basically . . ,"_ came the reply across a quarter lightyear. So he wasn't going to be chatty, but that was normal.

"Have you been meditating?" T'Pol asked. "You sound emotional."

_"It's nothing, mother. I'm fine."_

"Your father and I are concerned. Your actions don't seem logical. Why did you leave with aliens you know so little about?"

_"Considering what's at stake, the risk seemed acceptable."_

"What is at stake?" T'Pol asked.

_"Tiva . . . and her world. She's . . . she's perfect."_

Trip cut in: "Son, I know how you feel. I felt that way about Melissa. She was my first love. Then Natalie. Hell, I even felt that way about . . . . you know . . ." He closed his eyes to think. "The one at the 602 Club? . . . Rrr . . Rachel . . . no Ruby!"

_"Right, dad. I can tell you loved her . . ."_

"I did! We were flirting every night. Talking about kids and marriage. But it turns out Ruby was just playing some game."

_"You think Tiva's just playing with me? She's not serious? She's totally serious—about everything!"_

"No, I'm not saying that. She's sincere and dedicated. But I also know, and I don't know how to say this nicely, Lorian—she's _easily impressed._ Nothin' against you OR me, but she falls for people easily."

_"You're just mad she picked me."_

"I'm mad that she's asking for a commitment from my son when he's just 17!" Trip yelled back. "It's ridiculous. You're not even religious, Lorian. How are you gonna live with Triannons?"

There was a silence. _"She didn't ask me . . . it was my idea . . ."_

Trip raised his brow in surprise, signaling T'Pol.

"Are you happy over there?" T'Pol asked, reading Trip's thoughts.

_"I don't understand . . . "_ Lorian answered hesitantly. _"Dad asked you to say that, right?"_

"Are you satisfied . . . with your mate?" T'Pol clarified.

_"She's not my 'mate'!"_ the boy shot back.

Trip and T'Pol shared another hopeful look.

_"Neither of you care if I'm happy."_

"That's not true," they both objected.

_"You hope that I'm UNhappy and come home,"_ he accused. _"I want to talk to Destiny."_

"Destiny?" Trip asked

_"I want to talk to my sister."_

* * *

Hoshi patched the call through to a com in the nursery, where Destiny was stationed, and assured the siblings no one else would listen in.

"Lorian, I can't believe you're dating a teacher," Destiny said.

_"Heh."_ It was that half-Vulcan laugh. _"Neither can I."_

"What's it like over there?"

_"Destiny, nothing like this ever happened to me before."_

"I know . . ."

_"It probably never will again."_

"Does that mean you're coming home?" Destiny asked anxiously.

_"I don't know . . . talk to me. What's been happening on _Enterprise?"

"Everyone misses you . . . "

_"Yeah, yeah, yeah . . ."_ Lorian answered dismissively. _"I mean what else has been happening?_"

"Nothing else is happening. We can't even do our trade runs. We're stuck in space. We have to stay close to you in case you decide to come back."

_"I'm sorry,"_ Lorian said miserably.

"And your dad stopped teaching his classes. Your mom is the substitute. And you know how she doesn't explain things very well?"

_"You think Asatoshi can do my job in engineering?"_ Lorian asked.

"He shouldn't have to!" Destiny shouted at the com. "Remember how mad you were that I was stupid enough to wander off with the Triannons?"

_"I wasn't mad."_

"You were too! Well, now it's you who's done it. . . you're choosing them over us. When I left _Enterprise,_ you told me the mission was put on hold for a year while they tried to get me back. You don't think they'll do the same for you?"

_"Tiva has a mission. I can help . . ."_

"But so do you. It's here with us . . ." Destiny scolded.

_"Well . . . ,"_ Lorain muttered, _"now I feel like shit."_

"Good! Cause you deserve it," Destiny said with satisfaction.

There was silence for a moment before Lorian' voice sounded on the com: _"Thanks for the pep talk, Sis."_ He sounded sincere.

"Anytime," Destiny answered fondly. "What are sisters for?"

_"Tattling, mostly . . . ,"_ Lorian grumbled. His voice was deep these days. Childhood was so suddenly behind them. He got serious. _"Tell the others, I'm sorry this has been so much trouble."_

"Oh! The others . . . that reminds me." Destiny perked up like she always did when she had a secret to confide. "Paris held a séance. Everyone was there. Carlos, Glenn, Asatoshi, even Stan."

_"What's a séance?"_

"It's a ceremony where you try to talk to ghosts," Destiny answered brightly.

_"You guys are pathetic,"_ Loran informed her.

Destiny got defensive. "But we were so near that shipwreck . . . . It was spooky . . . Asatoshi told us his mom saw rows of dead people tied to their bunks. So, all us guys got together, turned out the lights, and lit some candles. We were going to turn off the artificial gravity but, it would have been dangerous with the burning candles."

_"Uh . . . Huh."_ He sounded annoyed.

"So we tried to make contact. We asked about the future—of our ship, and of Earth—now that YOU are gone.

"And Lorian," Destiny whispered, "They said we were _ALL GOING TO DIE!"_

_"You have got to be kidding!"_ Lorian exclaimed. _"A Triannon ghost told you, you were all going to die? How'd he tell you that?"_

"We all put our fingers on the edge of this magnifying glass, and we pushed it along a board with letters on it, and the letters spelled out 'D – I – E!'" Destiny waited for her brother's shocked response. "So what'd you think?" She asked excitedly.

_"You probably_ WILL _all die,"_ Lorian confirmed, _"'cause you're a bunch of idiots . . ._

_"No offense,"_ he added belatedly.

"None taken," Destiny answered wistfully, " . . . if you just agree to come home."

"Yeah, it sounds like I might have to . . ." Lorian admitted sadly.

* * *

Tiva met Lorian in the chapel, which was always empty these days, now that there were no anomalies to venerate.

Reluctantly, Lorian explained the situation to his girlfriend.

She didn't seem alarmed. "Lorian, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one," she recited gently. "Go home. They need you."

She was right, and she was trying to be kind. But there were no tears in her beautiful brown eyes. If she would just break down, he might feel slightly less sick about this whole thing.

"I thought you loved me," he said, a little too directly.

"Lorian, I do. I can prove it. Let's do one last meld." She eagerly reached for his forehead. He caught her hand and lowered it.

"I need to call my parents now," he said.

* * *

Ten minutes and a few tears later, Lorian had composed himself for an embarrassing call:

"Mom, Dad, I'm coming home. But I need amnesty."

"Lorian," T'Pol answered, "Your father has promised he would never hit you."

Trip threw up his hands. "I was never going to hit him."

"I'd like to see him try," Lorian shot back. "No Mom, I'm talking about the Cap'n."

"Lorian," Trip protested. "I wasn't going to hit you. But I swear, son, that time, you pushed me past my limit."

"Dad, I'm sorry."

"Just come home and we'll work everything out," Trip assured him. "I can't speak for the Cap'n but your mom and I will go to bat for you."

"Your place is here with us," T'Pol told him. "With _Enterprise._"

* * *

The autopilot steered Lorian slowly back towards _Enterprise._ The worst had already happened: he'd lost her. The coming troubles would pale in comparison.

He thought of their goodbye. She had always been so emotional. Suddenly she managed to be brave. _Of course she cares,_ he insisted. _I could read her mind, even without my fingertips on her temple._

Remembering those moments of intimacy, he fought back tears. Crying was not an option—ever again. No other person should be allowed to read his feelings, his grief . . . his doubts.

He tramped down his pain with righteous anger: _No one cares about Triannons. So what if I took off a few years, or even twenty to help them?_ Enterprise_ won't need me for another century._

The doors to the shuttle bay opened. Lorian was almost thankful for the immediate technical distraction: _how am I going to land this brick?_

Paris's dad was suddenly shouting directions: _"Turn on landing thrusters. OK, what happened to the rear starboard landing thruster?"_

"I had a little accident landing last time," Lorian explained.

_"OK,"_ Travis continued with barely concealed fury. _"You need to switch to antigrav."_

The shuttle bounced up.

_"Now, turn off thrusters!"_

"I'm not parallel to the floor."

_"Yes, because you crushed one thruster . . ."_ Travis noted briskly.

CLUNK. One corner of the shuttle hit the ground hard. Antigrav cushioned the next drop.

Lorian had only minutes to steel himself as the bay repressurized.

* * *

Trip and T'Pol rushed through the doors as they swished open, and ran down the ladder, one after the other. Lorian climbed out of the pod. He looked fine. Trip felt the relief wash over him, and then the anger. He charged towards the boy. "You can't pilot a shuttle. You could have killed yourself AND Tiva." He waved a hand towards the damage.

"I did exactly what you would have done." Lorian answered, earnestly.

Trip turned his full attention from the landing thruster to the boy. He raced over and grabbed him by both arms. Lorian threw out his hands in surrender, not knowing what to expect.

"Hey!" Lorian defended, "I did exactly what you DID!"

Trip still didn't know if he was about to hug the boy or shake him.

"Your father was escaping from the Triannons, not joining their cause," T'Pol stated calmly.

"I was on a mission!" Lorian explained.

"Then why didn't you tell someone?" T'Pol asked.

"Your mom was worried sick," Trip accused. "We already lost one baby this . . ." The words caught in his throat and he released the boy.

"Dad, Mother, I'm sorry. I should have left a note."

"Recruit!" It was the Captain.

Lorian stood a little straighter.

"'I should have _left a note'?"_ The Captain repeated, incredulously.

Trip turned to his friend. "Cap'n, T'Pol and I can, . . . we can handle him . . . "

"Apparently not." Jon surveyed the scene: A startled family. A damaged thruster. "But we're all at fault here. I trusted him as well." Jon turned to confront his nemesis directly.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Recruit?"

"I thought I could help . . ."

"Recruit, you took an oath of loyalty to this crew and THIS SHIP. You vowed to defend your own planet, Earth, not Triannon."

"I'm loyal to Earth."

"I'd like to believe that, but your word isn't worth much these days." Jon turned back to the concerned parents: "Lorian is an adult. He's responsible for his own choices now. And this time he made the wrong one."

Trip glanced to T'Pol, alarmed. T'Pol merely looked grim.

"Recruit, you were absent without leave, and you stole a vehicle vital to our mission."

"I brought it back," Lorian added lamely.

"You're on nonjudicial punishment: Three days detention. Twice-daily rations of water and protein biscuits. Security, please escort this young man to the brig."

"Cap'n . . ," Trip begged.

"If I wanted to be fair, I could probably add 'fraternizing with the enemy'," Jon noted, as Officer Hernandez took the boy by the arm.

"She's not our enemy." Lorian protested. "I understand that Triannon better than any of you. I did what was best for both our worlds, SIR!"

"Stop now," Trip commanded. "Before you dig yerself a deeper hole."

"Would you prefer a court martial?" the Captain inquired of Lorian.

"No," he answered grudgingly.

Trip watched Hernandez give his son a push. Lorian began to walk. He was being compliant.

Trip turned helplessly to the captain. "Please . . . I told him we'd work something out."

"He stole a _shuttle pod!"_ Jon reminded.

Trip hesitated till Lorian was out the door. "You and I stole the _Warp 2 prototype,"_ he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, I remember," the captain replied. "The _NX-Beta._ We took a stand, AND we paid the price. Lorian will too . . . Trip, he's done the math; he knows how badly we need him. I'm almost sure he'll take charge of this mission one day—but not minute before they shoot my coffin out the torpedo tube! Until that day, he follows the chain of command! _MY command."_

The discussion was closed. In another moment, T'Pol's calm voice broke the awkward silence: "Sir, I suggest that Lorian be debriefed as soon as possible."

"I won't pretend his eloping with a Triannon was JUST an away mission!" Jon fumed.

"And I'm not sure he was _just_ eloping," T'Pol responded calmly. "He claims he was helping Earth . . ."

Trip and Jon exchanged looks.

* * *

Jon opened the door to the brig. Lorian looked up from his seat on a bed, his expression changing from miserable to glum.

The captain spoke first: "You want to be part of this crew?"

"Yes, sir," Lorian stated, with apparent sincerity.

"Then I have an assignment. Your reinstatement depends on your compliance with this assignment."

Lorian listened attentively, watching the captain pace past the bunk.

"You will write up a full report of your observations of on the Triannon ship. We may be able to use that intelligence sometime in the future." He turned to face Lorian.

"Cap'n, they took away my PADD. I need it back to write the report."

"We'll get you something to write with. It won't be your PADD."

"But sir, I need that PADD . . . "

" . . . to text your friends and play games? I'm afraid not." The captain turned his back to peer out the window into the hall. "It's called administrative punishment for a reason."

"But after I write the report, you'll let me out?" Lorian asked.

"Yes, I'll let you out . . ." Jon turned and smiled grimly, "in three days . . ."

Lorian sighed and reached in his pocket. He pulled out a doo-dad and handed it to the captain. "Sir, you are going to want this."

It looked exactly like the chip Trip had retrieved from the Triannon shipwreck.

"The Triannons had you return the recording of the decompression? I said they could keep it."

"No, this is completely different data," Lorian explained. "I've also got a version on my PADD that's easier to read. This is a flight record of the travels of the Modernist Triannons over the last three years. They _have_ been to the Hospital of the Makers. I thought we could put this information together with my dad's estimate of its location to pinpoint the Central Sphere."

"How did you get a hold of this? Did Tiva help you?"

"No, I had to steal it. Tiva doesn't know anything. I didn't want to put her on the spot. I mean, she wants us to destroy the spheres. She just can't admit it—even to herself."

"She told us she didn't know the location of the Central Sphere."

"She really doesn't know. The exact coordinates of each sphere are a secret known only to the Prenoms. And they keep only mental records of this data."

"Well, well, well . . ." Jon broke out with a real smile. "This is unexpected. Not even your dad was able to get to records like this . . ."

Lorian seemed shocked by the statement. "With all due respect, my dad was a prisoner, SIR!"

"I understand. It wasn't meant as an insult, Lorian." Jon studied the boy for a long moment. "What you've done here goes a long way . . . in repairing the damage between you and me . . . ."

"Yes, sir."

"And there is still a ways to go."

Lorian nodded glumly. Finally he spoke. "Captain, what I said, about nepotism? No one really says that. I made it up myself . . ."

"And why did you do that?" Jon inquired.

Lorian shrugged.

"You have permission to speak freely."

"I don't know . . . You don't consider my position."

"You're a recruit."

"I mean my situation. You don't respect my privacy. And you expect me to do all your work."

"Your shift is no longer than any other crewmember's."

"No, that's not what I mean . . . I mean in a hundred years . . . You expect _me_ to attack the Xindi."

The captain's face registered surprise. "I wish it were otherwise, Lorian. I wish I could do this myself, but I have to trust the future generations."

"We can all do it together, soon. Before you — you know — die."

Jon smirked at the inelegant remark.

"Sorry, Captain."

Jon straightned his face. "Is there anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"

"Yes . . ."

"Well?"

"I can't eat this food . . ."

"Then don't eat it," Jon said happily, "but it's all you'll get for three days."

Lorian went back to sulking.

"I know you won't believe me," the Captain added in a quiet tone, "but I'm not afraid of the Xindi. If I thought it would save Earth, I'd take them on alone with my bare hands. We will monitor the situation. If the timeline changes irreparably, even without our interference, I will take that as a sign that you were right. I will adjust our plans accordingly."

Lorian nodded solemnly, trying not to look astounded.

* * *

A day and a half into Lorian's detention, Malcolm appeared at the door of the brig and offered a parole. The pretense: Lorian's expertise was needed to fix that patch on the hull that hadn't been polarizing—like forever. Clearly, the Captain and Lieutenant were engaged in a game of mean cop/friendly cop.

But after a day and a half of lonely meditation interrupted only by scoldings and lectures, Lorian was hungry for a friendly face. He was also hungry _period._ He'd been fasting, a talent he'd inherited from his mother. He'd refused to eat the awful protein biscuits allotted him, or even drink the water. So far no one had even noticed his silent protest.

He thought to warn Lieutenant Reed about his low blood sugar, but it would just sound pathetic, and Lorian was tied of being pathetic. He grabbed the biscuits and took a gulp of water before exiting the brig behind Malcolm.

"So, I hear you broke up with your girlfriend?" Malcolm asked as they suited up for the EVA.

"It's a long-distance relationship," Lorian corrected.

"Those are hard," Malcolm noted, as he stepped into his orange and silver environmental alongside the boy.

Lorian scowled in agreement. "Why did you pick me for this job, . . . sir?"

Malcolm tipped his head. "Believe it or not, you actually know more about this little glitch than your dad. You discovered it, and you've been studying it from engineering. We know how to work around the problem, but I want to fix it once and for all."

Lorian put on his helmet.

"Stand there while I check the seals," Malcolm ordered. He checked the helmet ring, then bent down to inspect the gloves, and finally the boots. Then he put on his own helmet. Lorian now heard the Lieutenant only through the com:

**Lorian, I told you this before, but if you ever need the advice of a fellow bachelor, you can talk to me . . . anytime.**

"Yeah . . . but I'm not sure you can help," Lorian replied cautiously. "I think that Vulcans do things differently than Humans."

**And Silarans do things differently than Vulcans,** Malcolm added.

"Silarans? Who said anything about Silarans?"

**My long-distance girlfriend, the ex, she is Silaran.**

Lorian nodded inside his helmet.

* * *

Lorian was had been glad to be out of his tiny cell, but now that he was all the way out in the vast empty void, he was felling a teeny bit agoraphobic. The warp nacelles loomed overhead, looking way too powerful. _What if they accidentally activate? What if the bridge crew forgets we're out here and decides to go somewhere? Would we really be protected from the speeding universe by an invisible warp bubble?_

As they walked to the malfunctioning section of the hull, Lorian's curiosity got the best of him:

"Lieutenant . . . if you don't mind my asking . . . what happened between you and the Silaran?"

"*Same as you,*" Malcolm answered sadly. "*She wanted us to be together, but I stayed here for the mission.*"

"Oh, that's not exactly the same as me. But it's a little the same . . ."

"*How so?*" Malcolm asked. They both stopped at troublesome patch of hull and stared down, looking for clues.

"You know I stole that data? And of course, I couldn't tell her . . . And you know how Vulcans are touch-telepathic?"

"*I'd heard that.*"

"Well, after I went behind her back, I was afraid to . . . to 'get close'. . . and I couldn't explain why things were different."

"*I see,*" Malcolm said. He shook his head, seemingly impressed with the dilemma. Then he pointed down. "*So what do you think of this?*" he asked Lorian.

"I guess we'll have to remove this panel."

They bent down and began the procedure, twisting a few recessed handles. The panel popped up. Lorian and Malcolm lifted it and set it to one side. The magnetized toolbox was in the way of the panel so Lorian moved that too. Then turned back to inspect the bundles of cables they had revealed. Suddenly the problem was obvious: one cable was broken in two. As it bounced around, the ends intermittently touched the hull plating, shorting the system.

"Well this is easy," Lorain commented. "We weld it down?"

"*If you say so, you're the engineer,*" Malcolm encouraged.

Lorian smiled shyly. It was silly. It was an easy job and Malcolm was being kind.

"*You want to do the honors?*" Malcolm asked.

"Yes, sir," Lorian answered and reached for his phase welder. The job was not in fact as easy as he had imagined. With no gravity, leaning forward while crouching was something of a trick. It took a surprising amount of energy just to hold himself still. And he was finding it hard to grasp the wires through his thick gloves. Malcolm took one end of the broken cable and Lorian took the other, pinching it tightly. The tips of the cable met and Lorian activated the beam. Soon the ends of both wires were glowing, fusing. _Almost . . ._ Then the welder, which he was also squeezing tighlty, popped from his grip. It's energy beam hit his own left glove. A split second later: _Shit!_ Lorian dropped the offensive tool and shook his hand. He'd actually burned a hole through the finger of his suit! Foam bubbled out the hole.

"* You're all right, *" Malcolm said.

Lorian nodded. "I think so."

"*No, I'm telling you: you're all right. The suit has self-sealed. Take a breath. You look a little green.*" Malcolm deftly caught the floating phase welder.

"Ha. Ha."

"*Seriously, if you panic and get muddled, you'll make another mistake.*"

"I have to admit, despite all the physics in my head, when I burned myself, my first thought was to rip off this glove."

"*Can you move your fingers?*"

They studied Lorian's wiggling fingers by the stark and eerie blue light of their helmets.

"Yes."

"*The cut in your glove is tiny,*" Malcolm said. **I imagine the burn is superficial as well.**

"Should I go show Phlox?"

"*If you do, who will help me get this conduit rewired?*"

"Yes, sir." For a moment Lorian wished he was back in the brig, safe and secure. The hull seemed spooky. He was pretty much immune from irrational fears, nevertheless . . . He'd seen too many movies: made up too many stupid stories to scare his friends:

_Seventy percent of matter is ghostly,_ he'd told the group at their last "campout." _It moves through you all the time, without interacting. Space may be full of leptonic beings; they could be lurking right over your shoulder. And if they ever find a way to convert their mass to baryons: BOOM, you're toast!_

It was all outrageously improbable, though his friends had been impressed. Lorian took a deep cleansing breath. "Let me see if I can do this."

He took the phaser with his right hand. His left had feeling again. This could almost work . . . if his hands would just stop shaking.

He waited a moment; it wasn't getting better. This accident had him rattled. "I'm sorry, sir." He offered the tool to Malcolm, crouched at his side. Lorian stood up to stretch his knees. BANG! Lorian's head had hit something solid—hard enough to hurt!

He forced himself to turn. There had to be a logical explanation. The helmet limited his visibility to the sides. He twisted his body towards the impossible obstacle.

_Duh!_ His toolbox was floating away. He had magnetized it to the panel he'd removed. But he'd forgotten to secure the panel. So the toolbox AND the panel had drifted away. He grabbed for the panel and pulled it in with the tools.

Malcolm's voice sounded in the helmet:

"*Recruit, maybe you should go back. I'm worried about this string of bad luck. You've had quite a week.*"

"There's no such thing as luck. I'm just an idiot." Lorian answered. And why'd Lieutenant Reed have to note how pathetic his week had been? A waving motion caught his eye out here on the hull, where all was solid titanium—he felt as if he were viewing the spacey scene through water. _Hell, no!_ Lorian was _sure_ he wasn't crying . . . though that hit to the head had almost set him off.

"*Recruit? How many fingers am I holding up?*" Malcolm was demanding.

"I didn't bump my head that hard through the helmet."

"*How many fingers?*"

"Three . . . but . . ," Lorian saw that the warp nacelles were bending slightly, waving gently behind Malcolm. "Everything else _does_ look wavey. I feel a little dizzy. Maybe it's the zero g."

"*That's it.*" Malcolm told him firmly. "*Get to the airlock. I'll meet you as soon as I reattach this panel.*"

"But, sir?" Lorian protested. On an EVA, personnel were supposed to stay in pairs at all times.

"*That's an order.*"

Lorian turned to go with actual relief. His vision had suddenly cleared. He stepped carefully toward the airlock, feeling now like a kid faking an illness to get out of school. Haflway to the airlock he turned back to Malcolm. "Lieutenant, I should wait for you . . ." He stopped. The waviness had returned with a vengeance.

Horror washed over him, as he belatedly realized the truth: "Lieutenant! Spatial anomaly! Run! No, jump!"

Lorian switched to the open channel. "Bridge, Malcolm's in trouble. He's adrift, heading 2 o'clock ! He's evading an anomaly directly over the saucer section."

_"Acknowledged. Malcolm! You're in our blind spot. You need to be twenty meters above the bow before we can get a transporter lock."_

It was the biggest spatial anomaly Lorian had ever seen. The outer edge of this quivering blob was 10 meters from Malcolm and advancing. Malcolm demagnetized his boots and jumped. He activated his jet pack. It wasn't enough, the anomaly was overtaking him. He pulled out his air hose to create another jet.

Lorian knew what he needed to do. He would die if he didn't get within the trellium-plated hull. He stopped watching and started "run/walking" across the hull. He could hear the chatter in his helmet on the open channel.

A crewman was saying, _"We see him. We can't get a transporter lock because of the anomaly. We can't reposition with you on the hull."_

"You can!" Lorian insisted. "Impulse."

_"Get inside and we'll start to maneuver."_

Lorian felt the hull begin to move beneath him. He rebalanced and resumed his trek, riding the gliding surface.

"*This is Lieutenant Reed. I'm running out of air. If I don't make it, my affairs are in order. My computer passcode is "Shendra" . . .*"

_"Malcolm we see you. You need to be in front of the ship. We're turning to get a transporter lock."_

"*Earth will prevail . . .*"

Lorian opened the airlock hatch and slid through. "I'm in," he announced to the bridge.

He looked up through the porthole; the ship was turning; stars serenely circled overhead. Now he could hear his Dad: _"Malcolm, buddy, before you run out of air. Exhale! If you pass out, we'll bring you in. Exhale . . . we're almost there!"_

_Exhale to avoid explosive decompression,_ Lorian remembered, as his own compartment filled with air.

_"* Shendra . . .*"_ Malcolm whispered, sounding strangulated.

_They'll never need that passcode,_ Lorian told himself.

The airlock re-pressurized, Lorian opened the door, and stepped out into the empty corridor. No one was there to greet him. He leaned his back against a bulkhead and slid to the floor. He sat there listening to the open channel. It was his dad, with other voices in the background: _"Malcolm, buddy, I'm right here! Right here with you."_

_"Shit!"_ Rostov cursed.

_"He's inside the anomaly!"_ another voice announced.

_"I think he's OK,"_ a woman said hopefully.

_"He should be OK, just like the Triannons. The anomaly is huge."_

_"We'll just use the tractor cable to pull him out,"_ Travis suggested.

_"But he's losing consciousness,"_ someone cried.

_"Stay with us,"_ Trip shouted. _"Can he hear us? Malcolm . . . ?"_

_"Transport,"_ Jon ordered.

_"NO!"_ T'Pol screamed.

There was dead silence over the open channel.

In shock, Lorian took off his helmet. _How can you transport through an anomaly?_ Unless it has a flat side, the interface between normal space and regular space will act as a lens and scatter the beam of particles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary:** Malcom says goodbye.

**Author's notes:** In this chapter and the next, I tie things up: Malcolm's multiple relationships, Lorian's conflicts with his superiors, the fate of two worlds, . . . and (I haven't forgotten!) the health of the T'n T bond and their frustrated attempts to have one more baby.

As I approach the finish line of this series, I freely reference from my first E-squared story. If anyone hasn't read, **Forwards or Backwards**, which launched this adventure, I invite you to do so. If not, you are about to learn a secret about how Trip and T'Pol got together in my E-squared universe. ;)

**THANKS:** To Elessar and an anonymous beta for enormous help in revising this chapter. (You guys were right about everything! ) And to Blacknblue for reading an outline of "Brainstorm" and telling me to go for it.

* * *

Trip staggered into Malcolm's empty quarters. "Shendra," he repeated again to himself, as he had every few minutes since the accident—as if it were possible he might forget a passcode Malcolm had told him with his dying breath. "It's the girlfriend, Shendra . . . "

The computer popped to life, surprising him. The relevant file was prominently labeled: "In the event of my death." Trip opened it; he blinked back tears. It seemed that meticulous Malcolm, ever prepared for the worst, had maintained a folder full of farewell letters.

With some trepidation, Trip opened his.

_Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker III,_

_As you will recall, you agreed to be executor of my last will and testament. My affairs are in order. I entrust you with this solemn duty._

_You have been my closest friend._

_I regret that recent circumstances have conspired to complicate our friendship. With regard to my actions during your captivity, I implore you to believe my intentions were honorable. In your absence, I did my best to help both you and your family. Nevertheless, your anger is understandable. T'Pol is your wife, and you are quick to defend her. Please know my only wish was to protect her; I never for a moment forgot that she was yours._

_Knowing your character as I do, your generous spirit, it is likely that all is now forgiven. If not, consider this my last request._

_It has been an honor and a pleasure,_

_Lieutenant Malcolm Reed._

"Request granted, Mal," Trip muttered. He managed a bittersweet smile, before spilling tears. _You were awfully generous, yourself,_ he thought, wishing the man could hear him

_P.S._

_I have prepared personal messages for some of my friends and loved ones. See that each person listed below receives a document._

Trip skimmed the blurry list intently. It wavered before him, surreal, like another damned anomaly. Trip wiped his eyes with a sleeve to get a better view, and when he did, a laugh burst out, sounding more like a sob. Malcolm had written letters to half the women in the Expanse, _including_ Amanda and T'Pol.

There was no longer any point to jealousy. Still it was odd: Besides himself, the only men receiving letters were Jon and . . . _Lorian?_

* * *

The next day, the senior officers began to gather in the conference room. A few arrived early. "Where is Lorian?" Jon inquired of Trip and T'Pol.

"I don't understand why he's no longer in the brig," Trip said. The drama over Lorian's misbehavior had almost faded into the background.

"He's been paroled," Jon explained, looking miserable. "And I want him here for this meeting."

T'Pol seemed dazed, but now she blinked. "I should try to locate him . . ."

Jon, nodded, excusing her. She got up and left to find her son.

Jon continued: "I know that hindsight is twenty-twenty, but I wish to God I'd asked your son to our last meeting. If Lorian had seen video of the mega-anomaly . . ." Jon gave a sigh. "He would have recognized the phenomenon sooner."

Trip assured him automatically: "There is no way you could have anticipated . . ."

"I agree," Jon said. "The vacuum isn't friendly or accommodating. We were hit with a string of misfortunes and we quickly ran out of options."

Trip recalled the static on the radio all those many years ago as he and Malcolm had waited for rescue on Shuttlepod One. _The galaxy is giggling at us,_ Malcolm had said.

"A successful transport was a long shot," Jon continued. "I knew that when I gave the order."

"It was a tough call," Rostov said, sliding into a chair. "Though it's obvious now, we should have gone with the grappler."

Jon grimaced. "I appreciate your candor. We will need it in reviewing the events leading to this breakdown. We owe it to Malcolm to try to extract at least one positive lesson from this disaster."

Trip looked around. It was just him and Rostov: "If you want the truth from me," Trip declared, "I keep wondering what my son was even doing on that hull." He waved a hand at the ceiling. "He was in no shape to be out there. Physically or mentally. Not to mention, _I_ could have repolarized the hull with one hand tied behind my back."

"I agree," Jon replied in a soothing tone. "It was too soon. But I disagree that you should have done that job. Why should our most experienced engineer be wasting time on routine maintenance? This accident only reinforces my gut feeling that the training of recruits must be our highest priority."

Trip sighed and gave Rostov a sideways glance. Rostov shrugged his shoulders.

Trip kept hitting this wall. Jon wasn't moving to reinstate him as chief engineer; he was asking him to teach. Trip was too tired to be disappointed. He realized he needed to get behind the captain for the difficult job ahead.

At nine-hundred hours, the rest of the senior staff arrived on cue. The chatting ceased and the meeting began. Jon introduced the new Armory Officer, Lieutenant Chang, a former MACO who had trained under Malcolm. The beleaguered officers offered nods of congratulations and even a few weak smiles.

"The next item on the agenda: Trip, you've looked at Malcolm's will?"

"Yes, Sir," Trip answered, "And it's downright embarrassin' how thorough it is. Reminds me how I left behind a mess when the Triannons had me captive. But Malcolm's thought of everything, from the disposition of his worldly possessions to the poems he wants read at his funeral.

"My biggest problem is, see, Malcolm wrote like twenty farewell letters. A few are to the crew. Most are to his friends on the surfaces. He made me promise they would all get distributed. I don't really know all these people. I'm gonna need some help finding them.

"Hoshi?" Trip looked to her expectantly.

"He left me a letter?" Hoshi asked carefully.

"No, I'm sorry . . . I mean I need your help."

Her poised expression faltered.

"I think he only wrote to people he had some issues with," Trip hurried to add. "Like some stupid misunderstandin' . . . "

"No, that's fine," Hoshi assured him, graciously. "Absolutely. I can help with translation and communications to the surface. Where do these . . . _women?_ . . . live?"

Trip nodded confirming the gender. "Several live on Siliar IV."

"Amanda may have some ideas," Phlox interjected. "Malcolm worked with us concerning a possible ransom we might have paid to the Triannons for Destiny's release. Malcolm was operating through informants on Siliar IV. As a MACO, my wife knows more about this."

"Thank you Phlox, Hoshi," Jon moderated. "We will do our utmost to carry out Malcolm's last wishes."

The third item on the agenda is the memorial service. "Trip, you are the executor." Jon jutted a chin in Trip's general direction. "You have the privilege of organizing this thing."

Trip froze in panic. _I can't!_ He'd never had a close friend die. As for his sister Lizzie, he'd missed her service, being out in space. "Jon, I don't want that privilege. It's not my sort of thing. I've never even planned a party . . ."

Jon looked skeptical. "It's more of a responsibility than a privilege," he clarified.

"I . . . I mean . . . I will if I have to," Trip stammered, "But it'd hardly be fair to Malcolm to have a beginner running this thing."

"I'd love to set it up," Hoshi volunteered with a determined smile.

Jon nodded a thank you to Hoshi, then turned for a second go at Trip:

"You'll write the eulogy! You were his closest friend. He left no next of kin —"

Hoshi came to Trip's rescue. "Jon, please. Leave this to me. I'll organize things, and I promise there will be a eulogy. Does anyone doubt I can do it?"

Travis spoke up. "I disagree with Jon. Malcolm did have kin, we're all his kin. A bunch of squabbling brothers and sisters." He looked around, rallying his fellow officers. "You don't know how much this reminds me of the _Horizon_. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were Boomers . . ." His plea for unity was drawing some reluctant nods when T'Pol returned with Lorian. The room went quiet after T'Pol sat down, because Lorian remained standing.

He looked disheveled, leading Trip to wonder if T'Pol had just pulled him out of an access tube. But his bearing was military.

"Recruit Tucker requests permission to make a statement, Sir!" Lorian announced loudly.

Jon looked surprised, but he nodded his permission.

"I . . I want to apologize to the crew for running off. It was selfish, and I understand that my actions disrupted operations and undermined safety, perhaps leading to this accident. I don't have a good excuse." Lorian's voice was low, but calm and steady. "I particularly apologize to you, Captain Archer, for the disrespect."

_He said that like a Vulcan,_ Trip noted with approval. _He said it like a man._

It seemed that T'Pol strongly agreed with that general sentiment.

_Though human women can also be forthright,_ she appended. With a jolt Trip realized he'd just heard her through the bond.

"I accept your apology," Jon was saying to Lorian. "I think we all just want to move forward."

T'Pol reached out to her husband through the bond, and he happily reciprocated. In their minds, they squeezed hands, sealing that agreement.

* * *

T'Pol reread the note on her PADD for the last time. It was only logical she put it away; she'd already memorized the contents. For reasons quite apart from logic, T'Pol found herself wishing the short message had been recorded in audio.

_Dear T'Pol,_

_If you are reading this it means I have passed away, most likely in an accident. You have always been my dear friend and colleague, but recent troubles have brought us unexpectedly closer. You don't know how flattered I was that you turned to me first as a possible partner in connection with your approaching pon farr. I have always admired you and, perhaps I am mad, but I now suppose you felt something similar for me._

_As a woman, you are incomparable. Do not think that I refused your request out of a lack of desire; quite the opposite. I sensed I could easily fall for you in the process of complying with your request._

_Trip is a lucky man to have you. Take good care of each other._

_It has been my utmost honor and privilege to serve with you both._

_Live long and prosper,_

_Malcolm_

In the wake of the Malcolm's passing, T'Pol had struggled with many emotions: Anger, frustration, feelings of —gratitude . . . and a nameless longing.

She quickly closed the file as Trip entered the room.

She and Trip had each lost a friend. They mourned him together, but they mourned him differently.

"You ready?" Trip asked abruptly.

They were both wearing their best uniforms.

"I am. And you?"

"Ready as I'll ever be . . . for my best friend's funeral."

He clutched a PADD and they marched out side by side.

* * *

They were gathered in the Armory. There was no body to eject from the torpedo tubes, but it still seemed like the right place to be. T'Pol was finishing the eulogy that her husband had been reading until he'd gotten stuck. Losing the battle with his composure, he'd stepped aside and let her take over. Her usual Vulcan reticence gave the words added potency:

"I loved him. He meant the world to me. I'd describe more of the misadventures that cemented our unlikely friendship, but Hoshi requested that I keep it G-rated."

This elicited some smiles.

"Ask me later about shore leave on Risa . . ." T'Pol signaled her curiosity with a raised brow, but continued reading:

"All I can say is that Malcolm pulled my _behind_ out of the fire more times than I can count.

"I deeply regret that I was unable to return the favor last Monday." Now T'Pol abruptly paused. She steadied herself and finished: "Malcolm, buddy, I'll never forget you did or what you tried to do for me . . . for all of us."

T'Pol glanced to Trip, who was fighting hard not to cry. He thanked her wordlessly through the bond. Trip threw an arm around his son's chair and tugged him closer. Lorian stared at the floor.

It was Jon's turn to speak: "Thank you, Trip, for your thoughts . . . I'll try to keep mine brief. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed was diligent, almost to a fault. Long ago when our journey started, I invited him to the Captain's mess for breakfast. It was supposed to be a social occasion, but Malcolm refused to discuss sports. (And no, it wasn't because I was boring him with tales of water polo. Incredibly, he claimed he didn't even follow _soccer!_)

He only wanted to talk about the mission. If memory serves me, it was duty rosters and upgrades for the torpedo tubes. He hasn't relaxed much since. Even his favorite hobby—sparring—fed back into the mission. He came aboard as a Lieutenant and he died with that same rank. And yet he never complained. He put the needs of _Enterprise_ first: ahead of status, ahead of friendship, ahead of opportunities for marriage and family. Without a second thought, he put the mission ahead of life itself.

In the end, that mission took his life. And yet he died with hope. With his last breath, he called out these words, our battle cry and our solemn duty:

Earth will prevail!"

_That was inspiring!_ Lorian thought as the sound of a lone trumpet filled the room. It was some ancient hymn he'd heard before. Its notes gave form to his mixed grief: he'd lost a kind teacher in the same week as he'd lost his first (and he suspected only) love . . . Lorian suddenly wished he could apologize to Malcolm, or just explain his mixed emotions to the one adult who might understand.

The familiar Planetary Anthem immediately followed, and all rose to their feet:

_White and blue against the stars.__  
__We won't fall back, we've come too far . . ._

Lorian stood at attention, his eyes on the United Earth flag, hanging to the left of the Starfleet flag. He wouldn't fall back. He'd work to save his planet, while Tiva worked to save hers. He and Tiva had promised to help each other in this. They would be allies forever. He held tight to that promise.

* * *

Trip had just been "promoted" to Director of Engineering Education, a full-time job in the Command Department, directly under Jon, parallel to T'Pol. When Jon died, Trip might very well succeed him as Captain.

At the meeting where he, Jon, and Rostov had hammered this out, Trip had demanded to know why he shouldn't run engineering.

"_Because you're a genius." Rostov had explained. "If we're ever in a jam, you just pull a miracle out of your butt. But individual genius is risky as a long-term strategy. We can't depend on brilliance. What if we'd lost you out there instead of Malcolm? We need to make our systems simple. Simple enough, a kid can do it."_

"_Why can't Rostov teach the kids?" Trip had asked the captain._

"_I approve of Rostov's program for the Engineering Department. He's convinced me we need to standardize and modularize the systems. We will move towards all replaceable parts. No more custom made."_

"_OK, I understand, I'll get on board."_

"_This is where I need you Trip. You'll be in engineering every day, apprenticing the kids."_

Malcolm had died a lieutenant. Why was it so hard for Trip to "just' be second or third in command. _I can't sulk over this._ He didn't need a repeat of the depression he'd suffered the last time he'd lost his job. Thinking about the risk of depression, Trip realized he should check in on his son. They hadn't had a chance to talk since the accident.

* * *

"We're going out there again, already?" Lorian asked incredulously. He and his dad sat at the conference table, Trip's empty classroom.

"The hull still needs to be repolarized."

"But can't it wait another day or two ?"

"We took off three days to honor Malcolm. Another day of vacation is a luxury we just can't afford. Malcolm would understand. He would want you to go back out."

Lorian still looked distressed.

"They say if you get thrown from a horse, you need to get right back up in the saddle." Trip raised a brow expectantly.

"How do you even know all these ancient sayings? You never rode a horse . . ."

"_Heh,_ Strangely enough I did . . ." Trip was prepared to tell that story, but Lorian glanced away, down at his PADD.

"What's the matter?"

"It's about my letter from Malcolm. I realize now how he always had my back. . . . I guess that's why we were out there on that hull. Repolarizing the hull was just a lame excuse to get me off of punishment."

"What does your letter say?"

"I'm sorry Dad, its private."

"I know he was your instructor . . ." Trip tried to form a theory.

Lorian began reluctantly: "Last year, he let me know he was willing to help me . . . while you were gone. Or if you didn't come back at all."

"I didn't realize . . ."

"So, now he just wants to give me some advice. . . The letter, it's a list of some women on the surface. Companions."

"Companions?!" Trip was startled. "Like . . .?"

"Yes, Dad," Lorian rolled his eyes, but continued patiently. "They invite you to have sex with them for money."

"I know."

"Then why pretend you don't?"

"No, I'm not pretendin' anything. I was just surprised is all."

Lorian said nothing for a moment. "Well, it's just in case I don't find a mate. You know . . . for the pon farr?"

"But your mom and I . . . I mean, I was just hoping . . ."

"I know, Dad—true love, just like you and Mom—all perfect."

Trip was touched. _Despite the quarrels Lorian had heard, that's how it seemed to him too?_

"But what if that doesn't happen, for me?" Lorian continued. "Malcolm said you might not think to give me options— because, he said, you're 'terminally optimistic'."

Trip sat back, blinking. His mouth hung open, realizing what he had done. "I'm sorry, Lorian. I could kick myself; you asked for my help and I didn't hear it."

"No," Lorian insisted. "You were a good dad. It feels weird to say that."

Trip's heart was too full to respond.

"I'm ready to go out on the hull now," Lorian announced.

* * *

Out on the hull, the view was spectacular. While Trip and Lorian completed repairs, _Enterprise_ orbited Siliar IV. The huge multicolored orb spun smoothly; its dominant land masses were coppery, its oceans dark. It was therapeutic to them both to be welding tiny wires while an M-class planet rolled below, just off portside. It felt exhilarating. Lorian had never been to the surface—of any planet—and now it looked so close. If he tossed his hyperspanner, would it end up there, or would it disintegrate along the way?

"Aunt Amanda and Ms. Hoshi are down there, somewhere," Lorian noted. They were distributing Malcolm's letters.

Trip, unbending from the fetal crouch of zero _g_, smiled and gave a mock wave to their away team.

_Enterprise_ flew behind the planet into night, causing helmet lights to pop on. In the darkness, Lorian wondered again about the pon farr. He wondered who he might meet on his shore leaves and who Malcolm had met. He wondered about love stories that had played out across years and light years.

Then Tiva herself interrupted his thoughts. The voice in his ear made him jump: "Lorian, I need to talk to you, soon."

* * *

Lorian was safe in his access tube, lounging on his sleeping bag, talking to the air.

"My dad almost figured things out. You called while I was out with him on the hull working. You almost caused a second accident."

"You shouldn't leave that earpiece on all the time. It's dangerous. You could just pick up my messages later," Tiva chided.

"I know," Lorian answered guiltily. "I feel bad enough about that first accident. No one says so, but it was mostly my fault. I should have recognized that anomaly . . ."

"You were doing your best with the information available to you. Don't blame yourself. You nonbelievers have your Trellium-D, so you tend to ignore the anomalies."

"I know—"

"Anyway, your dad felt the same way about his accident."

"_His_ accident? What accident?"

"You know, he sent you all through the subspace corridor. He and your mom told Captain Archer it should be safe."

"No, I didn't know . . . I mean, that makes sense. I guess I never thought of it."

"He couldn't accept what he'd done, and he suffered a serious depression during _Enterprise's_ first year in the Expanse."

"No! My dad? That's impossible."

"He had to have brain surgery to recover. Your mom advocated for him. Managed his treatment. He says she saved his life."

"You're kidding!" Lorian was floored. The story was shocking, yet somehow plausible. His Mom never revealed her feelings for his dad; she was merely loyal; yet his Dad loved her very openly. Maybe shared troubles had cemented their relationship.

But something confused him: "But I don't see why he was depressed. If not for his accident, we wouldn't have this great chance to save Earth."

"The Triannons believe there are no accidents. Isn't it odd how destiny brought us together?"

"You mean my sister?"

"Hey, it WAS your sister who introduced us. But I meant DESTINY, the religious concept! The Makers want you to save your world. And they want me to save mine."

"You have so much faith in me. I don't think I can do it."

"You can."

"I keep thinking how my slow reaction killed Malcolm. And my future actions may decide the fate of millions, maybe billions."

"Malcolm may be still alive in an alternative universe. The anomalies cause time to branch in two."

"I don't see how."

"Maybe his molecules were scattered in one timeline. They made it out in another. Triannons believe that."

"Physicists believe that too—that time keeps branching. Doesn't help me much. I'm stuck in this universe."

"It gives me some comfort to contemplate the alternative timelines. I'm sure there's one where we are together."

"Yeah . . . I guess I'm slightly religious," Lorian quipped. "I contemplate that one all the time."

She laughed out loud and he gave a half chuckle. "Hey, I got something for you. It's the video you want of your world in the future . . . The original files were a little corrupted. I'll send you the original and a partially reconstructed version."

"Lorian, I love you!"

"Ha! I thought you'd moved on . . ." He felt elated. "My dad said you would probably find someone else, and quickly. That I should stop waiting . . . In fact, I was sure you were calling to tell me about that preacher guy who's been flattering you . . ."

"Lorian, your intuition was correct . . ."

"Oh . . ."

"Except it's not flattery."

"No!" he backtracked, "That's not what I meant. You have a special talent. You _should_ go into preaching."

"And Yarnor is on track to be Prenom. He can encourage people to listen to my message."

"Yes, I understand."

"But you and I will always be friends."

"Yes . . . of course."

"I wish our destinies were more closely linked, but you said it yourself: Your place is on _Enterprise._"

"I'm sending that data."

There was silence and then: "I've got the files . . . . I'm viewing them . . . This is incredible."

"Yep, you can clearly see the broken buildings and the dead vegetation."

"No you don't understand. I recognize this landing site. Everyone will recognize this site. It's sacred ground. Long ago, the Makers revealed their power right here on this terrace."

Lorian smiled weakly.

"Lorian, you have my eternal gratitude. I can never repay this debt."

"Trust me," Lorian muttered. "You have."

* * *

Not long after the away team returned from Siliar, Phlox summoned Trip and T'Pol to sickbay. Amanda and Hoshi were waiting there for them.

"As you know," Amanda began, "we couldn't find Shendra. We have confirmed that she died almost six months ago."

"Oh!" Trip exclaimed. "I'm sorry. He loved that woman. Almost married her."

"I know. We found her mother."

"So you gave her the letter?"

"It didn't seem right. We kept the letter, but we had a little talk. It seems that Malcolm's affairs are NOT in order," Amanda told them. "He left behind a _tiny_ problem."

"Then why are you smiling?" T'Pol asked.

Hoshi giggled. "Because he's adorable!"

"I'm afraid, I'm not quite followin'," Trip said carefully.

Phlox explained: "Though Malcolm feared it would, the Reed line has NOT come to an unceremonious end. It appears the Reed genes are quite hearty." Phlox harrumphed happily. "Malcolm has a son. His name is Shendren. The boy is four years old."

Trip's mouth fell open.

Phlox continued in a quiet tone, gesturing toward Trip and T'Pol, "All of us here are aware of your . . . interspecies fertility problems."

"I told Hoshi," Amanda said to T'Pol. "I knew you wouldn't mind."

Trip squinted in confusion, but he took his cue from his wife. She was glowing with hopeful anticipation.

"It's seems the grandmother finds the boy difficult to manage . . . She wants to know . . ."

"We'll take him!" both Tuckers shouted out at once.


	7. The Conclusion except for an Epilogue

**Summary:** The Tucker family enjoys some happy moments. And then . . . it's time to save the world!

**Disclaimer** My eternal gratitude to the creators, owners, producers of _Star Trek: Enterprise._ Mike Sussman wrote the episode "E2". This story was written for fun. No infringement intended.

**Genre:** Drama, Adventure, Romance.

**Setting:** The "E2" universe ("Reunion" and "Brainstorm" take place in a timeline branching off of the canon "E2" universe, in which Trip _doesn't_ die young). (See the introduction to chapter 1 of this story for details.) Please excuse one deviation from canon occurring in "Forwards or Backwards" (and repeated here).

**Note:** This is the finale to my "E2" series, written over a period of three years. The series ends where it began, with Trip and T'Pol. A short epilogue will follow, dealing with the fate of Lorian and Tiva.

Thanks to all the readers!

Thanks to betas **Black'nblue** and **Alelou **for general feedback, only some of which I heeded.

;)

Brace yourself for a wild ride.

* * *

"So you think our second'll turn out as good as our first?" Trip asked his wife.

T'Pol smiled inwardly at her husband, whose eagerness made him seem almost youthful, despite his 5.2 decades. The couple were dressed and ready for their departure to Siliar, where they would pick up the boy they intended to adopt: Malcolm's four-year-old son by his former girlfriend, Shendra.

"We will provide guidance and a secure environment for the boy's development. As we have observed, the particular outcome depends on a number of variables outside our control."

"Yeah, Lorian threw us a few surprises there at the end . . ." Trip shook his head. (Lorian at the age of 17 had briefly defected to the ultra-religious Triannons because of a woman; but he was back.)

"Still, I feel a kind of wild optimism about this one," Trip continued. "You know, it's like when I played football. Before the game, the scoreboard's clear, the crowds are expecting a win, and you're going to give 'em one."

"I understand. Before each game, partisans of a team encourage one another, exaggerating the odds of success, with generally positive effects on performance."

At first Trip was surprised. "Oh, right! Last night I was showing you . . ." (He and T'Pol had been melding again. Even the morning after, the memory was vivid: the freshness in the air, the camaraderie, his heart pumping, a jumble of screams emanating from the stands. )

T'Pol gazed back serenely. "Until now, I did not recognize the connection between those sports events and today's adoption."

"But now you get it!" Trip noted triumphantly. "And that baby naming ceremony, you showed me again last night . . ."

"It is an ancient ceremony that enacts a continuity between the generations," T'Pol explained. "The communal responsibility of a family towards its newest member is acknowledged, and that link is celebrated."

"See, I already knew that! From the mindmeld. It's like a brainstorm. Sights, sounds, smells from my life thirty, forty years ago. Or stuff from your homeworld. It's like it's happening to me, now, for real. These random impressions flash by . . . it's incredible."

T'Pol's dropped her gaze. Logically there was nothing wrong with melding, but she'd had to hide the desire for mental intimacy her whole life.

"I'm sorry, T'Pol . . . I keep forgetting: You can't discuss it. I guess, we'll need to meld again just so you can hear how happy I am you suggested this 'experiment.'" He reached out to touch her face but she backed away.

"Your offer is tempting," she admitted. "However, there is insufficient time."

He leaned back against the wall, catching the bed frame. "How about a quickie? It'll be harder to do this once little Malcolm Jr. is rooming here."

"I am not concerned. We have overcome numerous obstacles to our pairing."

"But what if he's a light sleeper?"

"If we need additional privacy, for mating or . . . other activities, we can always move to the restroom."

"Throw a blanket down by the toilet?" Trip asked skeptically.

"I was referring to the shower," T'Pol clarified. She boldly sent a schematic through the bond.

"Geeze, darlin'!" he said, feigning shock."What's come over you? You're gettin' daring in your old age." He wasn't supposed to call her "old," and he grinned as she pinned him with her "pointed look." He poked his tongue along the inside of his cheek and fell silent, plotting more possibilities for their happy future.

"You know," he said at last, "we could have ourselves a Vulcan naming ceremony right here on _Enterprise._

"That would have been agreeable if the boy didn't already have a name."

"He's only four years old. We can change his name . . . get a little creative, like with the last one?"

"'Shendren is a variation on the mother's name, 'Shendra'. It would be respectful to keep that name," T'Pol replied.

"I know I'm supposed to speak well of the dead," Trip continued carefully, "but Shendra never told Malcolm he had a son." He squinted his protest. "Doesn't that bother you . . . a little?"

"Shendra pressured Malcolm to marry her and he refused."

"He wasn't willing to move to Siliar."

"And Malcolm never invited her to _Enterprise,"_ T'Pol countered. "So hiding the child would be a logical way to avoid a custody dispute. Hoshi and Amanda believe the child was well cared for. Therefore, I will honor this woman."

Trip sighed his resignation: "It's no use. Mommies always get the final say."

"There is no such precedent on Vulcan," T'Pol recalled, unconsciously transmitting appreciation for her husband's considerate nature, his reflexive generosity.

Trip was startled by the emotions arriving through the bond. His wife admired him. She was almost being affectionate. He pulled on the bedframe, stood up, and held out his arms. T'Pol walked into them.

* * *

The adoption went about as well as could be expected: The orphaned boy was hesitant to leave with strangers who didn't look like his grandma and didn't talk normally (they were using the universal translator to communicate). And he couldn't comprehend how they were all going to live in the sky. Still, he was curious enough about the shuttlepod that he climbed aboard, holding Trip's hand.

As they began their assent, Shendren began to whimper: "I want to go home!" Soon the little boy had squirmed out of his seat restraints. He ran to the door, sobbing and asking to get out. T'Pol hurried to pick him up. Holding him on her hip, she pointed out the window at his planet, receding below. He was confused by "the great big ball," and as he pondered it, his crying slowed to a hiccup. By the time the group arrived on _Enterprise,_ Shendren was fast asleep on T'Pol's shoulder.

A sleepy Shendren awoke on _Enterprise_ in a new bed, tented by little curtain for daytime napping. Trip and T'Pol were soon at his side, explaining that this was his "big boy bed" and Shendren could chose to sleep on either the bottom or the top bunk. Shendren scrambled out of his bed. He climbed up the ladder and back down to explore the possibilities. T'Pol stood guard lest he slip.

"Your daddy used to live on this ship," Trip continued. "If he knew about you, he would have loved to take care of you. When he died, he asked us to send a letter to your mommy, and we were lucky enough to find you. This is Lorian, your new brother."

Lorian held up a hand in greeting.

"We're your new mommy and daddy," Trip continued, pointing to himself and T'Pol.

"I didn't have an _old_ daddy," Shendren said and jumped to the floor.

"Everyone has a daddy," Trip corrected.

"Unless they are a clone," Lorian appended.

"What's a clone?" the boy asked, climbing the ladder again. Soon he was perched at the top.

Trip explained. "If you were a clone of your mommy you would grow up to look exactly like your mommy. You would also be a girl." Trip, turned to T'Pol. "But he almost looks like a clone of Malcolm."

"Indeed. It's the eyes."

"Those are Malcolm's eyes," Trip said in a hushed tone.

"They're MY eyes," the little boy protested loudly.

"They most certainly are your eyes," T'Pol agreed, peering straight into them. "They are very nice eyes, too."

"That used to be my bed," Lorain told him. "But you can have it now. I also have some toys you're probably gonna like."

"Where?" The boy's eyes lit up, and he scrambled down the ladder to get to Lorian, who held out a basketball. The boy reached for the ball and embraced it.

"And here's a toy weapon. It's a phase pistol."

Shendren dropped the ball. He didn't even watch it bounce away. He reverently took the phase pistol in one hand.

"Now this is very important," Lorian instructed. "Always keep your phase pistol set to 'stun,' not 'kill.' Surak teaches: You can't restore life, so be slow to kill."

"What if bad guys attack?" Shendren asked.

T'Pol assured him: "You are perfectly safe. Your father and I will defend you against any assailant."

Shendren and turned his gun on Trip. As Trip indicated surrender, a laser beam cut through the air. Trip fell to the rug in a heap, to the little boy's delight. Shendren turned his pistol on T'Pol and "fired." But this time there was no reaction.

"Why won't she die?" the little boy asked.

Trip rose from the floor, with a slight groan. "First of all, you can't kill us. Your weapon is set on stun, remember?" He pointed out the control. He caught T'Pol's eye. "Second, your Mommy is a Vulcan. And Vulcans are _very_ strong."

"Vulcans are impervious to weapons fire," Lorian said, forever excusing his mother from participation in this children's game.

"Cool! I'm a Vulcan," Shendren shouted.

"Lorian," T'Pol scolded. "Amend that statement."

"It's not a lie. We're just playing."

"It is imprudent to misinform children about the capabilities of firearms."

"All right. Tomorrow I'll set him straight. I'll inform him about the capabilities of firearms. Hell, I'll show him the whole armory!" Lorian smiled, considering how easy it would be to impress his new younger brother. "Let's take you to meet your cousins," he said to Shendren. "They like to play 'pirates'."

"Why doesn't my mommy smile? Is she sad?" Shendren asked suddenly.

"Vulcans don't smile," Trip explained, "but . . ."

" . . your mommy is very pleased to meet you," T'Pol told Shendren. "I have never been so pleased to meet anyone, other than your brother when he was born."

"I like it here!" Shendren exclaimed.

"Watch out," Trip teased. "Mommy's getting mushy. Pretty soon she's going to be bawling on Daddy's shoulder."

"That is unlikely," T'Pol objected. And yet her eyes _did_ look moist. She reached over and gave Trip a very firm hug. She didn't let go. *It's the regrettable aftereffects of the trellium . . . ,* she apologized through the bond, as a tear slid down her cheek.

* * *

That night, Shendren chose to sleep on the top bunk.

T'Pol arranged the covers around the little boy as he listened intently to Trip. Trip was reading a story in the Silaran cultural tradition. For each monster described, the reader was to affect the appropriate snarl, grunt, or other warning call. Since these were Silaran monsters, the going was a little rough.

The warning call of one large reptiliain, the tzart, was KI! KI! KI! ending with a buzz that sounded almost like electrical static. Trip couldn't get it.

Shendren giggled at the attempt and corrected Trip with his own approximation: KI! KI! KI! ZzzKtttzzzKttzzz.

Trip glanced at T'Pol. The monsters in this story could very well be real. The couple knew so little about Shendren's homeworld. Like the protagonist of this children's story, Trip and T'Pol felt themselves at the start of a great adventure.

Trip clicked off the PADD. "OK champ, you win. You're one scary tzart!" He ruffled the boy's hair affectionately, then stepped away and to pull on a metal divider that would cut the Tucker quarters into two "rooms." It's tent-like door would be left unfastened.

"Computer: white noise." T'Pol called out as the divider unfurled.

Sounds of Silaran nocturnal fauna now burped and growled quietly in the background. The boy seemed settled.

"I think he'll be OK," Trip said softly.

* * *

Trip and T'Pol took turns showering before climbing into their own bed.

They had assumed Shendren was sleeping, but now they heard him stir. _Thud._ He had jumped off the ladder and was pattering across the rug.

Now he stood beside their bed, on T'Pol's side, dragging a blanket.

"It's weird here," the little boy said in a worried tone.

"Did you remember to adjust the gravity?" T'Pol asked Trip.

"Yes . . ."

"What is weird?" T'Pol asked the boy.

"My bed is making a noise."

"Please imitate the noise."

"zzzzzzzzzzz"

"Oh," Trip said brightly. "That's just vibration from the engines. I always liked that sound."

Shendren jumped in bed between them, pulling his blanket up behind him.

T'Pol seemed surprised. "What should we do?" She wasn't used to a snuggly child. Lorian had been relatively independent.

"Just let him be," Trip whispered. "When he falls asleep we can move him." He rolled away onto his side to make more room in the crowded bed.

T'Pol retucked the cover around her little boy. She laid a protective hand on the bundle. It was nice to have him so close.

Shendren quickly drifted off with T'Pol's limp arm across him. Trip could sense the sleepy embrace, as well as his wife's profound contentment, through the bond. Trip burrowed deeper in the mattress. He was pretty comfortable himself, despite a knee in his back. _I ought to move Shedren,_ he realized through a happy fog, and a moment later, he was dreaming that he had.

* * *

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FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

* * *

It had been a bustling home to three generations, but these days _Enterprise_ was an empty shell. Except for a skeleton crew, the ship was practically deserted. Even the bunks had been ripped from the walls. Every detachable item had been carted to the surface or discretely sold to other ships. On the fifteenth anniversary of the _Sacred Mysteries_ massacre, _Enterprise_ was scheduled to deliver a fatal blow to Sphere Builder expansionism.

With the Triannon Modernist Reformation underway, pilgrimages to the sphere had become less common. Triannons, convinced of the mercy of their Makers, had been shaken by the fate of the _Sacred Mysteries._ At the Sphere of Pentance, the pilgrims had thrown themselves on the mercy of the sphere builders, trusting as an anomaly swallowed their ship. They died despite their faith. Interpretations of the incident were still confused.

But some things were clear to the Believers: According to modern revelation, the Makers revealed their power through black holes, mainly those at the center of galaxies. The new religion was more inclusive. In any case, "prophets from the future" had convinced the Triannons that conflict among Believers was a path to destruction. Few would miss the Sphere Builders. Most residents of the Expanse were now convinced these aliens were behind the plague of anomalies that hindered travel throughout the region. Still secrecy was paramount in plotting an attack on the invaders. It would be foolish to declare war. Not even the humans' closest allies wanted to be associated with a failed attack on a species that could alter the laws of the known universe.

The Silarans, a commercial people, would discreetly aid the humans. Hoshi, Travis, Chang, and other were already aboard a nearby Silaran ship, monitoring spheres throughout the system. The Silarans had agreed to pick up "survivors" of a "shipwreck" scheduled for the next day. Archer and Lorian would be the last to abandon _Enterprise_ before a catastrophic explosion that would destroy the Central Sphere. Afterwards, they'd rendezvous with other officers on a Silaran freighter.

Nonessential personnel were already living on the Silaran surface.

Once the human refugees were sure they had saved their home planet, the humans of _Enterprise_ needed to retrieve a satellite orbiting Earth: the _Phoenix_. The first generation had placed it there a year after their seemingly unfortunate detour through the subspace corridor. If humans had somehow perished in the Expanse, _Phoenix_ would have crashed to Earth around 2140 bringing data warning of an impending Xindi attack.

Tomorrow, following the expected success of the attack on the Central Sphere, all _Enterprise_ crew would be decommissioned except for a small team dedicated to the retrieval of the _Phoenix._ In the colony of New San Francisco, the first generation would enjoy their well-deserved retirements, while the second generation pursued new civilian jobs. Many would be working as mechanics and repairpersons, drawing on skills learned in Trip's classroom.

The future looked bright.

* * *

From his room, Lorian patched a call through to his friends at New San Francisco. They had almost finished construction work laying out a small town. At the end of each day day, many of Lorian's generation would gather on the porch of the newly constructed rec center, reading, sipping drinks, and chatting, while their kids played ping pong and basketball inside.

"Tell me what's it like down there," Lorian requested. "Nothing to do here but meditate."

"You'd be surprised how easy it is to get used to life in the open air," Paris answered. "At first the breezes and temperature swings were somewhat alarming."

"Like a catastrophic failure of the environmental systems!" Carlos interjected.

" . . . but the old people are loving it," Paris finished. "We're all settling in. Learning the language. You should hear Asatoshi. It's freaky. He hears a word once, and he knows it. He's speaking better than your brother."

"Your brother's funny," Glenn said. "Shendren's passing himself off as full-blooded Silaran just to woo the local girls."

"When Uncle Trip and Aunt T'Pol get down here, they'll set him straight," Destiny said with satisfaction.

"Nah," Lorian said. "They'll understand. He needs to find his own identity."

"His game is working too," Carlos added. " Man, he's going to get lucky; find a wife before you do."

Paris shushed him. "Lorian, please excuse my husband. He's an idiot."

"Yeah," Destiny added. "Maybe my 'twin' doesn't want a wife. He's married to the mission. Ever thought of that?"

Lorian appreciated the support: "I _have_ been lucky in my life: I've got all of you."

They fell quiet a moment before Glenn said: "It's always hard to tell, but I think our commander just told a joke."

"Seriously," Lorian replied, "if I get this right tomorrow, I'll die a happy man."

"But not tomorrow you won't . . ." Carlos shouted. "You're joining the surface dwellers, Vulcan! We've reserved you the best house on this compound."

"Where is 'Toshi?" Lorian asked.

Destiny answered: "Still running simulations for you. Your little buddy is obsessed. You said your plan was foolproof. So why's he still working? "

"Tell him to stop. We've already got what we need. Tell him, we're good. And I want him to call and check in."

"All right," she said.

"Peace and long life."

"Yeah!" "You too, Commander!" They called out.

* * *

"Well, that's it." Trip wiped his hands against his ragged uniform. At the age of 67, he was retiring. He'd recalibrated his last sensor matrix. He rested a hand on the shuttlepod and pulled open the door. "The three of us are heading out. Who's ready for a fireworks display?!"

"Save us a front row seat," the Captain told his highest-ranking officers.

"Aye, Captain," Rostov answered.

T'Pol nodded solemnly. She was nearly a centarian, but looked twenty years younger than her husband.

"Lorian and I will catch up with you all in within two hours," Jon told them.

T'Pol addressed her son: "You'll power down the nonessential systems. All safety protocols must be offline."

"Yes, mother." These days, Lorian's deep voice sounded gruff—even when he was being cooperative.

Trip rolled his eyes at his wife. "Ya'll afraid the sprinklers might put out a matter–antimatter reaction?"

T'Pol answered gently: "Trip, you've installed hundreds of redundant safety features over a period of forty years. Any one of them could reverse the destruct sequence."

"I know it's unlikely," Rostov stated. "But we can't take any chances."

"Jon and Lorian will need those backup systems . . ." Trip protested.

"Just turn off the lights before you leave?" Rostov raised his brow at Lorian.

"Yes, sir, understood!"

"Give 'em hell!" Trip called out. His blue eyes stared intently into those of his son, as Rostov pulled on the door of the shuttle pod. Lorian nodded back his solemn promise: He'd get out alive.

* * *

Archer and Lorian, turned and ran from the Launch Bay. The doors closed. They heard the woosh of depressurization.

Jon began to pace. "Lorian, I never thought I'd live to see the day that Earth is saved. But thanks to you and your youthful impatience, it seems I just have." Jon smiled ruefully. "Though I do have misgivings: collapsing the barrier will make it that much easier for our progeny to leave the Expanse and pollute the timeline."

"The Sphere Builders are _not_ doing us or anyone a favor by locking up the peoples of the Expanse," Lorian argued forcefully. " They are our sworn enemies and we should treat them as such. My plan is logical. Earth _will_ be saved."

"Here's my logic," The Captain answered wearily, "If I don't agree to crash this ship into the Central Sphere, when I die, you and your cohorts are going to do it anyway. The way I see it, this is my chance to go out with a bang."

"Sir, why do you phrase it _that way?_" Lorian had an uncomfortable premonition.

The Captain turned to the younger man and addressed him formally: "Commander Tucker, tell me the truth. I want your honest opinion. Will the odds of success improve significantly if I stay to pilot _Enterprise_ into the Central Sphere?"

Lorian sighed his regret before answering. "In simulations, the odds of success improve from 92 to 98 percent when someone pilots the ship, sir!"

"You actually ran simulations? Why wasn't I informed?"

"Asatoshi ran the simulations . . . at my request." Lorian recalled the direct bedside manner of his long-dead Uncle Phlox, and tried to honor his example: "I didn't tell you because, with six million to 8 billion lives at stake, the cost–benefit calculations overwhelmingly favor the option you just mentioned.

"I didn't want to lose you. I let human emotions affect my judgment."

"You took a vow to protect Earth," Archer chided.

"And I took a vow to protect this crew. I was hoping to do both." Lorian looked worried. "It is not necessary that you sacrifice yourself, sir. Let's stick to the plan: use the autopilot. If we fail to destroy the spheres today, I'll find another way."

"Without a ship?" Jon shook his head sadly. "No. If we can't wait another 85 years, I'm going to make damn sure we finish this job today. Any time now, the Sphere Builders will contact the Xindi and start spreading their lies about us—about all Humans. Then we'll have two groups hating us instead of one."

Lorian straightened, adopting an even more stoic demeanor. "The odds of success will improve a _further one percent,_ if I stay to monitor the warp core, SIR."

"Absolutely not and that's an order, Commander Tucker! In the 2 percent chance your plan doesn't work, you WILL take over this mission."

Lorian masked his huge relief. "Understood."

"Promise me."

"If I have to hijack a ship to do it."

"You could call in some favors from that preacher girlfriend of yours . . ." The captain raised his brow as if he really expected a response.

Lorian and Tiva's clandestine collaboration to save the Triannons was now common knowledge. But as a policy, Lorian declined to confirm or deny the rumors about his love life.

"It was an honor serving under your command!" Lorian said instead.

Archer smiled sadly at the younger man. "Lorian, you are too young ­­– I hope – to understand the grief of losing a loved one. But ever since my Esilia died, there's been nothing but the mission. Don't feel you forced me into this. I'm . . . eager . . . to make this sacrifice."

Before Lorian realized it, the two men were embracing . . . for the first and last time. Suddenly, there was nothing left to say. Breaking apart, they shared a frightened yet determined look. Lorian nodded his gratitude and ducked out. He was running on adrenaline. He needed to stay focused.

* * *

Once off the lift, Lorain broke into a jog. In a minute, he was in Engineering. He called to the captain via the com: "Sir, I'm about to turn off life support and nonessentional systems on decks A, B, C, and D, and E. His fingers flew over the console. He checked off a list of nonessential systems, hoping they were truly modular. He switched the list off and on as a group. The warp core hummed steadily behind him. Good. _Nonessential._ Now he hesitated: His dad had wanted backup systems left on, while Rostov made him promise to turn them off.

Suddenly, Lorian knew how to square the circle. It would be simple to program the computer to turn off this list of systems _once_ his shuttle cleared the Launch Bay doors.

The receiver planted in his earcanal went off. As usual, he almost jumped.

"Lorian, I want to celebrate this day with you."

"Tiva! Later! I can't talk!"

"Then why did you leave your earpiece on?"

She had him there. He'd been hoping she would think of him today, despite the fact they had no formal relationship. Despite that fact that she was married. Despite the fact that this was all about his planet, not hers.

"Get off the subspace channel!" Lorian shouted.

"I'm on an EM channel."

Lorian sighed. "If you were on the EM channel," he explained patiently, "I'd have to wait a year for every light year between us just to get your message."

"I know. And I'm ON AN EM channel."

He froze. "Tiva? . . ." For a moment he was speechless.

"I'm on the Silaran ship. I hope to see you soon."

Lorian thanked Surak for his Vulcan control. He was going to need it to deal with a very human problem. Ever since his first pon farr, his hopeless love for Tiva had this new dimension: Sometimes he would become aroused just thinking about her. The nature of their relationship was ambiguous . . . but it was close. If they met, at the very least, she'd want to meld.

"Everything all right down there?" Archer asked.

Lorian returned his attention to programming, and quickly finished. "Yes," he answered. "I'm taking the warp core coolant off line . . . NOW. The warp core will go critical in 14 minutes 47 seconds."

"Then get yourself to that shuttlepod," the Captain said nonchalantly, as if wishing Lorian a relaxing shoreleave.

Lorian was grateful for this air of normalcy. He exited Engineering for the last time and raced to the Launch Bay.

* * *

Lorian sat in the shuttlepod._ The world is probably safe, and once I clear these doors, so am I . ._ He was about to depressurize, when he thought of a little shortcut: he could just vent the atmosphere into space . . . they'd never need it again. He probably shouldn't, but he was in a hurry.

He touched the console to open the launch bay doors. They slid open a crack and halted.

_SHIT!_

Either Tiva had distracted him and he'd screwed up the program, or he'd been caught by some damn safety protocol. Whatever the reason, the room was now depressurizing and the lights were dimming throughout the room.

He switched on the earpiece. "Tiva, there's a glitch. I can't open the shuttlebay doors. I'm stuck."

"Can't someone open them for you?"

"It's just me and the captain. I'm GOING DOWN with the ship!"

"You're not!" She insisted. "Stop and think! There's another way."

He's looked around the pod: in emergency supplies, there was an environmental suit. He had a slight build. Whoever's it was, it would fit. With the room rapidly depressurizing through the crack in the bay doors, he would need the suit just to get back to the corridor. From there, he could get to the lifeboats. But he had to move fast. The lower the pressure dropped in the launchbay, the harder it would be to escape back into the hall.

* * *

Minutes later, Lorian was running in the dark through deck E to the lift, when the lights came back on.

"Lorian!" Captain Archer's voice filled the hall. "Tiva's here."

"I know."

"She told me you needed power."

"I screwed up and jammed the Launch Bay doors," Lorain confessed. "Where's the closest lifeboat? I know we sold some."

"Deck C, portside. You have 4 minutes."

Lorian ran through the timing in his head. "Then they might as well be on Earth," he concluded. There had to be another way: "I'll jump out an airlock!" he announced. "I found a suit."

"I'm sending a distress call," Archer told him. "They'll know you're out there. Our Silaran allies or someone will pick you up. Grab some piece of metal furniture. You'll need a shield against the radiation."

"Yeah," Lorian glanced at his helmet's chronometer.

"You'll be fine, son. That's an order!"

Lorian opened the door to the nearest cabin. Everything was stripped bare. He found a dinner knife on the floor, he jammed it behind a full-length bathroom mirror and ripped that from the wall. He dragged his prize to the airlock, which opened on command. Inside he was weightless. The hatch was beneath him, so he flipped upside down. As the depressurization began, the ship started to move. He waited out the last 10 seconds, counting out loud. On ten, he leaped through the open hatch towards the stars, barely clearing the path of the moving ship. The humungous nacelles sailed past, a mere 8 meters from his head. The ship was gaining speed in its dive towards the Central Sphere.

"Tiva," he called into his helmet, "In case I don't survive, tell me NOW why you're here."

"If this plan succeeds, and it IS succeeding, I want to leave the Expanse . . . I feel a calling to preach to the outsiders . . . . ."

"What's this got to do with me?"

"Our destinies seem to be tied . . . . kik stat li'k tro . "

_Shit!_ Their com system was tied through the ship . . . and now he'd lost translation.

Out in the void, events were unfolding in slow motion, following a scenario he had been planning all his life. "The ship is behind the cloaking barrier," he called to Tiva.

She abruptly changed her tone. He knew she was praying by the cadence of her voice.

* * *

The ship ploughed through the cloaking barrier and disappeared. In another 30 seconds, there was a blinding flash. A beautiful, two-lobed explosion blossomed outwards—then collapsed. Much of the debris had reached escape velocity and was headed his way, but some was raining back down towards the center of the former sphere. Energetic jets formed at the top and the bottom of the explosion.

The spectacle was fascinating, but Lorian couldn't afford to watch. His suit was warning him of high levels of _x-ray and microwave_ radiation. It was warming him and ripping at his DNA. He raised the bathroom mirror before him like a shield. His shield proved useless! The radiation continued straight through. He tried not to panic. There was a huge chunk of ship off to his right and nine kilometers below. If he could get in its "shadow," he would be out of the radiation. Still holding the mirror with one hand, he activated his jet pack and began to maneuver towards it. Suddenly the radiation diminished. He discovered he could deflect a large percentage of the damaging rays by holding the mirror at a 70 or 80 degree angle to the explosion. He continued his trek towards the "shadow," laying on his "surfboard." Once inside the cone of safety, he began a perpendicular "assent," keeping the exploding sphere out of view. His air was a little low —this was, after all, a backup plan — but now he was reasonably safe. It was over. And Tiva, through the static, was calling his name.

* * *

_Lorian's heart was pounding as he approached Tiva's guest quarters on the Silaran ship. There was a whole range of emotions he could be feeling right now, from grief to elation, and he hoped to share them all with Tiva._

_The door slid open and there she was: Real, solid, and different than he remembered. Her hair was an intimidating maze of braids, denoting her elevated position as the wife of a prenom. Her face had changed subtlety, just as he had feared. She looked worn and weary, perhaps from the ordeal they'd both been through. But then she smiled and 15 lonely years since their parting simply melted away._

_The expectant grin on her face told him he was home._

"_You're alive!" she cried. They embraced "You did it. I always knew you were special."_

"_I missed you," his deep voice rumbled._

_After one blissful moment, he released her and stepped back. _What now?_ Her hands were resting on his chest. She slid them up under his open vest and helped him pull it off._

_He kissed her and she responded hungrily, reaching into his clothes._

_He was groping her dress, fumbling at the fastener. It was hard to move. He felt so tired._

"_Here," she showed him. "You're an engineer. This should be no problem."_

"_I shouldn't," he objected, even as his burning fingers sprung open the constraints of her clothing. "You have a husband."_

"_Don't worry. I'll leave him. Just be with me . . ."_

_At her insistence, he surrendered his control . . . She was scrambling to be closer, grabbing him, tugging him. He was floating, delirious. _The best damn moment of my life!_ As she began to climb him, he caught one leg, held her, and guided her backwards towards a bed._

_They fell on it, hard . . ._

* * *

"Commander Tucker! Commander! " the Silaran rescue worker was shouting, as he pulled the unconscious body through the air lock. It dropped heavily in the artificial gravity to the floor of the rescue pod. "Commander!" he repeated.

"He also goes by Lorian," a coworker informed him.

"Lorian! Can you hear me?" the first rescue worker demanded as he shook a shoulder. It was no use. The man lay motionless on his side.

The second Silaran rolled the patient onto his back and finished ripping off the rubbery EV suit. He reached up under the helmet with a facemask to administer oxygen. "He's barely breathing."

"We shouldn't try to save this alien. He was out there too long."

"His parents INSIST that we try!"

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FIFTEEN YEARS LATER . . .

Trip floated through the distant past and the distant future, which melted away leaving him sitting on a chair at the beach, looking at a beautiful, dark and churning ocean. Was he home? It seemed like Florida.

A young man stepped before him, holding a squirming baby. Trip took off his sunvisors. The sky was a little reddish, the waves too purple for Florida.

The expression of the man looking down at Trip was familiar and expectant, but Trip couldn't quite place him. He quickly decided not to admit this. This strategy was vindicated as the man began to deposit his baby into Trip's arms.

"Dad, you're awake," he said. "I thought you'd like to hold the new baby."

Trip's heart melted as he grasped the squirming infant. He poked its soft checks, ran his finger against the delicate skin of its arm. He remembered Ocean, the little girl he and T'Pol had never had. He hooked a finger into the front of this baby's diaper and took a peak, hoping . . . "It's a boy!" Trip announced triumphantly.

His son looked eminently pleased with himself. Now Trip felt every bit as gleeful about the gender as he sounded.

"Lorian! I never thought I'd live to see this day. My first grandchild. I can die in peace!"

His son's face fell. "Mom?" he called. "Dad's having a bad day."

T'Pol, from somewhere behind him, responded calmly: "Well, he thinks he's having a good day, so don't disrupt it. There is nothing to be gained by reminding him again."

_Good advice,_ Trip thought. _Let me be, while I introduce myself to this little one._ As Trip admired the minor miracle in his arms, a little girl ran up. She had a golden glow: her skin was tan and her curly hair was yellow. The girl looked so much like the daughter he and T'Pol had wanted Phlox to bioengineer that, for a moment, Trip feared he'd just dreamed her up. Then the baby spit up some milk. Trip dabbed at the mess with the sleeve of his shirt.

"GRANDPA, Grandpa I found sea-snake!" the girl announced in a foreign language that wasn't Vulcan, yet made perfect sense to Trip. She held up a tangle of vegetation that looked nothing like a sea-snake.

A second smile burst across Trip's face. "Now, where'd you come from, little girl?"

"We're right under the umbrella," she answered back, this time in English. "I was digging for sand-spiders with Mira and Charlie."

_Well this day just gets better and better,_ Trip noted with pride. In fact, he felt euphoric. Which reminded him . . . He looked up from his chair into the face of his own boy:

"Lorian, did I ever tell you the story of the day we took you and Destiny out of the biocylinder? For the longest time you floated on the top of the tank . . . "

"Yes, yes, I know . . . kicking Destiny in the head. I've heard that story plenty of times. I don't need to hear it again."

Lorian sounded angry and Trip didn't want to make him angry. "When you were born, it was the happiest day of my life," he added, plaintively. "That, and the day we adopted Shendren."

"Dad," his boy answered sadly, "I _am_ Shendren . . ."

Trip's heart sank, realizing that he'd slighted his younger son. He recovered quickly. Now he had his bearings.

"Right, I knew that. Of course. You're Shenrden. Shendren, your boy is beautiful. Maybe THIS is the happiest day of my life."

"You have a lot of those . . ." Shendren muttered to himself, but Trip sensed he was forgiven.

"Must be the medicine I'm taking," Trip suggested.

"No, that's for your memory. I think you just tend to be happy."

"So, what's the baby's name?" Trip asked, "And where's my PADD? I'm going to need to write this down."

Shendren reached and took the baby back to free up Trip's hands. "The baby's name is Malcolm."

"Malcolm." Trip smiled appreciatively. "I had a friend named Malcolm."

Trip's hands trembled slightly as he took the PADD Shendren handed him. Trip pushed a few buttons. There was the 3-D sudoku his wife liked him to work on. He wasn't finding his memos. Shendren pointed out a button.

Trip opened "memos" and up popped the very note he had meant to write: "Youngest grandchild: Malcolm."

Trip sighed in resignation. He tried to work around his condition as best he could. Trip surveyed his PADD, reading out loud. "My new grandson's name is Malcolm. My grandaughers are Shendra, four years old, and Mira, age six. Charlie is eight. My daughter-in-law is _Fiona Mayweather?_

"The second. I married the younger daughter of Travis and Fiona."

Trip smiled his approval. _That explains my granddaughter's golden features._ He read on. "Hey! We have servants!"

Shendren smiled in confirmation.

"Do they call me 'Sir Charles'?" Trip joked.

"They call you 'Captain,' Captain. You helped destroy the spheres . . . you're a hero in these parts." Shendren gave his dad a gentle clap on the back.

"So why'd you name him 'Malcolm'?" Trip asked, nodding at the baby. "Did you somehow know my friend?"

"No, . . . I never met him." Holding the baby like a football, Shendren pulled a beach chair closer to Trip's and settled into it. "What was he like?"

"He was . . . . my best friend on _Enterprise._ Well . . . . I guess I shouldn't tell _this_ story. It annoys your mother."

"Since when has that ever stopped you?" Shedren asked.

Trip laughed heartily and launched into his tale. He was back on _Shuttlepod One,_ getting drunk on whiskey. Sometimes it seemed like last week. When he talked about the past, he felt like a young man. They had all been awfully young, and scared as hell. Suddenly, Trip cut his story short. _Why frighten the boy? Shendren should be protected from life's troubles. He's so much younger than Lorian._

"To make a long story short, Malcolm tried to save my life. He pulled me out of that airlock. He said we would live or die together. You can never repay a debt like that," Trip concluded.

"Did he ever have kids?" Shendren asked quietly.

"Not that I know of . . . I remember, while we were stranded, I told him, 'One day, there'll be a Charles Tucker the Fourth!' He was _sure_ we would die. Now look around you. Funny how things turn out."

"It's surpremely ironic . . . now that you mention it."

"There!" Trip shouted. "For a moment, you sounded _just_ like him. . . . It was like he was _here . . ._"

Trip's eyes swept his son's face, searching for something. His son stared back just as intently.

"He looked a lot like you," Trip said at last. "Malcolm . . . Malcolm . . . ." Trip fell back in his chair. "Whatever happened to Malcolm?"

Shendren didn't answer. Something bad had happened to Malcolm. Trip was almost sure.

"And where is Lorian?" Trip wondered, getting more anxious.

"I don't know, Dad." Shendren absently patted his father's knee. "Maybe he'll be home for dinner." Shendren licked his lips, suppressing a smile.

_Malcolm used to do that . . . when he took a friendly jab. . ._ Now Trip felt confused.

"Shendren!" T'Pol scolded from afar. Through the bond, Trip knew his wife was hurrying across the sand to his rescue. She wanted to calm him down.

"Mother!" Shendren scolded right back. "Please, no neuropressure in front of the children!"

"It's just a backrub."

"Right, I know . . . it's 'therapeutic'."

"If you wouldn't agitate him, I wouldn't have to."

"Mother,_ I do_ know how to handle him."

Trip felt T'Pol's hands on his shoulders. She pressed her thumbs deep into the muscles of his back, and he scrunched his eyes shut to better savor the sensation. "AHH!!!, That's it!" he exalted. "That's the spot!"

"I'll give you two some space," Shendren decided.

"Alright, then. Later!" Trip called to his departing son. "Kids . . .," he muttered to T'Pol, once Shendren was out of earshot. He relaxed into his backrub.

"That 'kid' is 34 years old," T'Pol reminded.

"So what happened to Lorian?" Trip asked again.

"Nothing," T'Pol insisted. "He is doing well."

"Then why isn't he in my notes?"

"You removed his name because, you said, you weren't speaking to him."

"Why?" Trip pleaded.

"Because you're a stubborn old man." T'Pol stopped the backrub and placed her hands at the base of his neck.

"I can't remember why I would ever say such a thing." He wondered at the slight pressure, then felt her lips touch the top of his bald head.

"Then, that failure is the first and _only_ beneficial side-effect of this illness."

_* He bends the rules if he thinks he's right . . ,*_ Trip grumbled, pulling up a mental note from nowhere.

_*He means well and he cares about you too,* _T'Pol affirmed. *Trust me now and let it go.*

And so he did.

The sun was setting on the purple waves. The grandkids shouted in the distance. He heard a baby's cry that quickly faded. The sound of the waves was soothing. Trip reached back over his shoulder and T'Pol placed her hand in his. He held it a moment, fingering the ring. The gesture felt familiar. Like he'd done it a hundred times before. Maybe tomorrow he would remember the rest. But in this timeless twilight, all he knew for sure was they were married.

For now, it was enough.

* * *

THE END . . . except for a short "Epilogue about Lorian."

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Note: THANK YOU ALL for reading my E2 saga! If you enjoyed it, please leave a review.

Fans of Lorian, check back with the story. There's an epilogue coming!


	8. An Epilogue About Lorian

**Summary:** You will learn what happened to Lorian and the love of his life: Tiva.

**NOTICE: Elessar **gave me permission to crossover into his AU fic "**Telluride**," which is a romantic masterpiece in my humble opinion. Unless you are in a big hurry, read that story before proceeding.

Telluride was originally posted at **Triaxian Silk** and is now available, here at fanfiction dot net: Telluride

**Disclaimer:** Paramount owns _Star Trek: Enterprise,_ and I promise to leave its characters alone after this! This fic was written _before_ the release of the movie "Star Trek," which I absolutely love. NINE OUT OF TEN STARS! My story mentions a similarly titled holodrama, for no deep reason.

**Quick review:** In the conclusion of "Brainstorm," Lorian and Archer crash _Enterprise_ into the Central Sphere to defeat the Sphere Builders and clear the Expanse of anomalies. Tiva comes to be with Lorian for this event, but things don't go as planned. Lorian must jump out an airlock and float in space as the sphere and ship explode. Last we see him, he is being is pulled unconscious into a rescue vehicle. Years later, we find that Trip, with T'Pol at his side, are living out his sunset years on Siliar, a planet in the Expanse. Sadly, Trip is experiencing severe memory problems in his old age and we learn he has had a falling out with his oldest son, Lorian.

**Thanks: Alelou** and **HappilyEverAfter** offered constructive criticism on this epilogue. **Elessar** said "do whatever you want" in this universe I'm borrowing. None of these people are to blame for what is about to happen . . .

LOL!

* * *

**November 2076**

"Larry" of Telluride, Colorado, followed the holodrama in horrible fascination. He'd had mixed emotions about the imminent release of _Star Threat_.

The dashing, super-captain and his wooden Vulcan sidekick had just decided to sacrifice their lives for the good of humanity.

"_The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," the Vulcan intoned._

"_You have been and always will be . . . my closest friend," the captain answered gravely._

Larry watched, appalled, as a bright and shiny ship that somewhat resembled the _Enterprise-NX-01_ proceeded to fly into an object resembling the "Death Star" from the classic _Star Wars_ series.

An explosion filled his entire field of view then faded away.

A beautiful Triannon appeared.

"_And that's what happened?" a reporter was asking._

"_Yes," she whispered._

"_So now that Earth is safe, Lorian, like all the children of _Enterprise_ will never exist."_

"_Then why do I still remember them?" she asked the camera plaintively._

It was preposterous! And yet . . . Larry ripped off the hologoggles and wiped at his eyes.

* * *

"Larry" waited a day before he broke down and contacted the writer of the drama. They hadn't spoken in a year.

Tiva greeted him warmly.

"You watched the preview copy I sent you?"

"I did."

"What did you think?"

"It was . . . incredible."

She knew him well enough to catch his double meaning.

"I'm sorry about the portrayal of the Lorian character . . . I gave up creative control when I sold my story."

"I know, it's not your fault . . ." Larry began.

". . . that he acts and sounds like a computer?" she finished angrily. "No, it's not my fault. I tried to tell them: Lorian was as human as he was Vulcan. They didn't understand. They have this preconception."

Larry just nodded at the picture phone. It hurt him to think that a person who saved his planet would be thought of as an alien on that same planet. But he had to let it go. If a scrap of Vulcan DNA really made one Vulcan, a quarter of the people living on this mountain would be Vulcan. But they weren't; not really.

"Larry, how is your family?" Tiva asked.

"My dad's gotten worse. He still isn't speaking to me, but he's finally taking his medicine. My mother says he no longer remembers why he was mad."

"You should talk to him before he recovers his memories."

"He won't recover his memories, but the situation is stabilized and he seems content."

"It's all so sad . . ."

"Treatments for dementia are readily available here on Earth. I've been sending my mother the latest research and she has the medicines synthesized. But until very recently, my dad was refusing to 'benefit from medicines obtained unethically'."

"I wonder if he'd remember me?" Tiva asked.

"You were the _first_ to 'pollute Earth's timeline.' I'll bet he would!" Larry exclaimed.

"But I had a good reason," she defended.

"You felt called to preach to humans. Your intentions were admirable," he told her graciously.

"Your . . . Lorian's crew never appreciated that the Sphere Builders are truly _trans-temporal._ They aren't confined to one time period. They could attack Earth again. My mission to save the Triannon homeworld succeeded. So now I feel a burden for Earth."

"So you made your holodrama."

"To warn your people. Help them prepare. I know there are some factual flaws. But the whole story is true, in its essence."

"Perhaps . . . You know I was opposed to this dramatization. But now that it's out, at least in preview, and I'm still here, I'm feeling less anxious."

"The crew of _Enterprise_ will always exist, as long as we remember you."

"_Heh._ Logically that's true. And your public thinks you mean that metaphorically."

"So, tell me more about my _Star Threat_. I want an honest critique."

"I don't like the fans on those Bussard collectors"

"I have no idea what that means."

"Bussard collectors are mounted on the tips of the warp nacelles and act as ram jets collecting antimatter. Those fans would be obstructions . . ." Larry hesitated as inspiration came to him, "although, if they were magnetized . . ."

"Yes," Tiva answered impatiently, "but setting aside the technical inaccuracies, give me your impression of the drama as a whole."

Larry looked thoughtful. "Years ago, there was a movie: _Deep Impact_. The U.S. and Russian space agencies save the world from a comet— by blowing it into pieces. It was a favorite with my friends at Movie Night. But the whole thing just annoyed me. The strategy was wrong. Why wait till the last minute? They had two years to move that comet. And a comet blown to bits can do almost as much damaging raining down as one large comet. But, for all its faults, _Deep Impact_ may have saved Earth. It awakened Humans to the possibility of extinction from a large meteor or comet—and humankind rose to meet the challenge. Since the movie came out, at least two dangerous Earth-orbit-crossing objects have been permanently deflected.

He continued: "I'm hoping that your _Star Threat_, despite it's flaws, will encourage Earth to take proper military and diplomatic precautions against the unscrupulous species who built those spheres."

"Yes! Exactly! I'm so glad you understand."

"I would have never have done this myself," Larry emphasized. "You know that. But I think my planet really will be safer because of you. "

"That's how I felt when Lorian stole information from me that led to the destruction of the Spheres I had worshiped my whole life," Tiva noted.

"Yeah, well . . ." The two fell into a silence that was surprisingly comfortable. "I better go," Larry said at last. "We really shouldn't be talking. It's selfish of me. My dad is right about the danger to the timeline."

"Thank you so much for your feedback. But is that all you have to say about my dramatization?"

"Well, I _do_ have one more objection."

"Please, I want to hear."

"In the story, Tiva is asked if she regrets her 'missed opportunities' with regard to the protagonist. She states that Lorian, if he had survived the attack on the Central Sphere, wouldn't still care for 'a wrinkled old woman'." Larry paused. "But I'm sure he would care, very much."

Tiva looked startled, then touched. "That's really sweet, Larry. And you're fooling yourself if you think it's true."

"Looks don't matter," Larry insisted. "That's what my mother taught me."

"You mother claimed that looks don't matter, but she married _your dad._ I should call on her for the Rite of Mutual Correction and accuse her of hypocrisy."

"I think she's sincere."

"Then I accuse her of unforgivable wastefulness."

Larry looked uncomfortable. "Do you have to do that? Try to remember: He's my _DAD."_

"Looks don't matter; yet you _yourself_ are always with someone young."

"I'm 47 and I don't look 30. So it's hard. And the old ones are already taken. Besides, while one is melding, age becomes irrelevant." Larry looked down at his hands. The tips of three fingers had had to be amputated. His melding abilities had been somewhat impaired.

"I agree," Tiva answered quietly.

He'd been using his fingers to grip his radiation shield during the explosion, so the fingertips themselves had been unprotected. Tiva had been with him through that real-life drama. He shook himself out of his reverie. He'd found ways to compensate for his loss. His melding partners were accommodating. When people here in Telluride asked, he would mention a sawmill accident.

"Look, I got to go. My housemate's walking in here any minute."

"So . . . are you glad I told you about Telluride?"

"Very."

When Tiva had first come to Earth with her prophesies from the future, several citizens of Telluride had contacted her with an equally unbelievable story: Their great-great-great grandmother had been a Vulcan from the future, from a ship _also_ named _Enterprise._

The door swung open and his roommate entered, along with a chilly blast of air that smelled of dirt and rotting leaves. A young man struggled out of a sheepskin jacket, hung it up, and pulled off his muddy boots. Larry found these temperature changes invigorating, which wasn't surprising. His human ancestors had blossomed in an ice age. His friend stomped through the living room and threw a log on the smoldering embers in the big stone fireplace.

"I've got to go," Larry said.

"Peace and long life," she answered.

His friend turned in surprise and stared at the screen.

* * *

"Larry" was a codename, but also a new persona—and one that felt right. Lorian had pledged his life to Earth when Earth was an abstraction with a capital "E." Now it was his home. After thirty-four years in space, now he walked on earth, he tramped on it, he dug in it and kicked at the clods with his boots. He'd come to Earth on an approved mission—to retrieve the _Phoenix,_ the satellite _Enterprise_ had launched to warn the humans of the now averted Xindi attack. He'd lingered, hoping to find a cure for his dad's dementia and hoping . . . for who-knows-what from Tiva.

But since being informed of a previous, serious, yet benign, breach of the timeline here in Telluride, and especially now that Tiva was saving the world by describing the success of their top secret mission, Lorian found it hard to believe his simple life in a remote mountain cabin was going to hurt anyone. Besides, he just wanted to stay.

* * *

"Yeah, take care," Lorian replied to Tiva. He lingered a moment before switching off the viewscreen, then turned and gave his housemate, Mike, a wary glance. His friend's eyes now danced with amusement.

"Talking to your old girlfriend?" the younger man inquired.

"She's not my old girlfriend."

"Well, she's OLD!" Mike snorted at his own joke.

Lorian scowled a warning.

"Hey, man, I'm kidding. So that's the woman you chased around the galaxy?"

"You know what happened," Lorian grumbled earnestly.

"After what you showed me, I was expecting something different. She's not like the picture you painted."

Lorian tried to explain: "I was sixteen when we met. She was . . . amazing. I know it sounds impossible, but I felt as if we bonded."

"You were melding . . . it can happen."

Lorian shrugged.

"Hey, I'm sorry for the jab. I don't quite get it, but to each his own." Mike offered a conciliatory hand. "Put it there."

Lorian reciprocated, holding out his own scarred hand. They began a complicated handshake that Lorian knew would survive in some form for at least the next 65 years.

"Anyway, I'm over her," Lorian warned as they slapped hands, front and back. "And NOT because she's aged."

"It's fine. I'm just impressed you're that flexible." They gripped thumbs.

"It's fortunate for you that I am," Lorian retorted, bumping knuckles.

The other man laughed as the two brushed hands a final time—in a two-fingered Vulcan kiss.

Lorian felt a satisfying tingle run up the muscles of his arm and spread through his body.

* * *

Lorian had always found it hard to categorize his feelings, but around Mike, he felt good. He felt more conscious and aware. Almost like how he rembered feeling around Tiva. Mike worked as a veterinarian's assistant on the ranches, while Larry worked in the logging industry as an equipment repairperson. In town one day, Mike and Lorian had recognized each other as Vulcan-Human hybrids. They found excuses to talk and to meld. Mike was young and full of energy, had a kind heart, and could be trusted with a secret. He admired Lorian and was fascinated by his adventures in space. Lorian, for his part, found Mike's exuberance refreshing and was pleased to experience, secondhand, scenes from a more organic, rooted life on the surface.

Lorian thought back to his discussion today with Tiva and remembered that his Telluride ancestor Jack Tucker's giant optical telescope had actually played a role in the automated sky surveys for Near Earth Objects. He had a silly daydream that he ought to purchase the antique and refurbish it in his free time, just for the technical challenge.

Later than night, Mike cleaned up the dishes and Lorian headed out to the stable to look after the horses. On his way, he looked up at the stars, twinkling through Earth's turbulent blanket of atmosphere, and he felt proud to have served.

_THE END_

* * *

Footnote: Jack Tucker is Lorian's great, great, great, great, great Grandfather one alternative universe removed.

**Escriba** has made a movie trailer of my E2 series!!!! To see this movie trailer, go to Triaxian Silk version of this chapter, posted as the story: "Brainstorm: An Epilogue about Lorian." It's in the notes.


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